


Just A Scratch

by IllgrabmylIght



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Abusive Maggie Tozier & Wentworth Tozier, Abusive Sonia Kaspbrak, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Angst, Bad Parent Maggie Tozier, Bad Parents Maggie Tozier & Wentworth Tozier, Beverly Marsh Knows Everything, Beverly Marsh Ships It, Beverly Marsh is So Done, Beverly Marsh is a Good Friend, Bill Denbrough Being an Idiot, Bill Denbrough Stutters, Bill Denbrough is a Good Friend, Bill Denbrough is a Mess, Crazy Henry Bowers, Crazy Patrick Hockstetter, Creepy Patrick Hockstetter, Drug Use, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak is Bad at Feelings, Eddie Kaspbrak is a Little Shit, Eddie Kaspbrak is a Mess, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Georgie Denbrough Lives, Heavy Angst, Henry Bowers Being an Asshole, Henry Bowers is His Own Warning, Homophobic Sonia Kaspbrak, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mentioned Georgie Denbrough, Multi, Neglectful Maggie Tozier & Wentworth Tozier, Patrick Hockstetter is His Own Warning, Richie Tozier Being a Dumbass, Richie Tozier Flirts, Richie Tozier Has ADHD, Richie Tozier Has Issues, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier Needs a Hug, Richie Tozier is a Little Shit, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Richie Tozier's Internalized Homophobia, Slow Burn, Sonia Kaspbrak Being Terrible, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, Stanley Uris Has OCD, Stanley Uris Knows All, Stanley Uris is So Done, Stanley Uris is a Good Friend, Teenage Losers Club (IT), Underage Drug Use, Wentworth Tozier Being an Asshole, belch huggins is fucking disgusting, victor criss isn't that bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:42:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 62,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23607760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IllgrabmylIght/pseuds/IllgrabmylIght
Summary: Eddie Kaspbrak is afraid of being sick; Richie Tozier is afraid of giving his parents and the bullies another thing to beat him for.But if it feels so good, can it really be bad?
Relationships: Ben Hanscom & Beverly Marsh, Ben Hanscom & Everyone, Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Beverly Marsh & Richie Tozier, Bill Denbrough & Eddie Kaspbrak, Bill Denbrough & Stanley Uris, Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak & Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Mike Hanlon & Everyone, Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris
Comments: 38
Kudos: 111





	1. The Boy With Bruises

▼

**Iron. Blood.**

Richie ran his tongue over the bust in his lip bitterly.

A rock in the road. Pedaling faster than he should.

He winced as his teeth latched onto his tongue for a moment.

Richie Tozier was full of years of pent up anger. Every day it spilled between his lips; ceaseless jokes, puns, and insults.

This anger boiled his blood and burned his eyes with hot tears. This anger wasn't the type that led to violence, but the kind that led to shaking shoulders and muffled sobs in his bedroom while his parents fought in the kitchen and slurs bounced around in his mind. It was the wet anger during the night; after you've turned away from the fight, you find yourself crying, and you can't _stop_. It was almost never the dry anger, but the dry anger came after he'd cried all of his tears (or been socked in the jaw).

His release was interrupting class with jokes that got him sent to the principal's office, or calling Henry Bowers things that got him beat half to death in football fields after school (sometimes, when Bowers and his goons would fuck off, he would cry and beg for help, but no one ever came).

It was November 12th, 1992, and Richie had no release but to pedal harder, faster, further. His thighs burned worse than his eyes, but he didn't care.

The sun had already set, its earlier slumber lighting the sky with deep-sea shadow. As the wheels of his bike disturbed the peaceful puddles pooling in the middle of the empty street, a frigid wind began to blow leaves from their branches. He shuddered, turned his head down against the air, and kept going.

He didn't exactly have a destination, but that wasn't to say he didn't have options; the Kissing Bridge; the high school; the park; the junk yard or the gravel pit, where he could throw a fit with rocks and glass Coca-Cola bottles; his house, where zero, one, or two people would be waiting for him (in the case of one, he'd either be bombarded with fists or the smell of alcohol, and two meant he'd be offered both _and_ the end of a screaming argument. A PACKAGE DEAL!!! 50% OFF if your FATASS FUCKIN' GLASSES get BROKEN against your FROG FACE!! 25% OFF if you go to school Monday with PLUMS FOR EYES!!).

Richie wasn't exactly in the mood to sit out in the cold, though, so he found himself dropping his bike next to his front porch. His movements were careless. He opened the door and only slightly flinched when it shrieked. He forced himself to not glance around for his father's infuriated (and probably intoxicated) face. He kicked off his shoes and made his way up to his room. He avoided the creaky floorboards on autopilot and opened his door quickly to keep it from mimicking the front door—his was the loudest in the house, but on a good day, if you threw it open, it wouldn't make a sound unless you were too slow and didn't keep it from hitting the wall.

Wentworth parading into his room only minutes later was no surprise, nor was the man's immediate instinct to scream at Richie. "I did not raise you to come in this house like a wild fuckin' animal!" he started, and Richie stopped. He tuned out his father's yelling and breathed.

Time slowed.

His father's words were almost muffled.

Richie wondered if this was what it felt like to overdose. Did everything just slow down and fade away?

It almost felt like he was floating. Slowly. Like a balloon with something tied to the end of the string, weighing it down but not enough to keep it from floating, up, up and away.

And then he was snapped out of it.

He stared into his father's bloodshot eyes as the man dragged him to his feet by his shirt. "I'm gonna beat your ass! Look at me when I talk to you, boy!" _Boy_ , like Richie wasn't his _son_. "If you get into anymore fights, I'll knock it out of you myself, you hear?"

"Crystal clear," Richie mumbled,

(and ignored the new sting in his cheek from the back of his father's hand)

"Yes sir," he corrected himself. He sounded robotic. Automatic. _Dead_.

"Fuckin' fairy," his father scoffed, dropping him and walking towards the door. "No wonder you get beat up. If you'd act like a man for once, you might not look like a piece of shit all the time." He turned, eyed Richie, and scanned over his room. "Clean up this room. Looks like a fuckin' pigsty." Then the door was closed, Wentworth's footsteps muffled as he marched away.

Richie's lip trembled. He adjusted his glasses that his father _so delicately_ backhanded askew. He took a shaky breath. He obediently stuffed his clothes into a laundry basket and swiped all of his wrappers and empty water bottles into the trash. He carefully crawled under his blankets. He switched off his lamp.

At 6:16 P.M. on November 12th of 1992, Richie Tozier curled up in the darkness of his bedroom and cried so hard his throat hurt.

At 6:16 P.M. on November 12th of 1992, Eddie Kaspbrak sat by his window and gazed up at the dusty-purple sky and begged for something to make him feel alive, because his mother's pills didn't do the trick.

▼

"Hey," the bruised boy wheezed, his voice strangled as he forced out a greeting—as if his guardian angel with two fanny packs hadn't just watched him get beaten to a pulp by Satan himself.

_Eddie gawked in sheer horror from the shadows of the bleachers, witnessing each punch and kick into the bespectacled boy's body—mainly his stomach and face._

_"Fucking faggot! Don't ever fucking talk to my cousin again, you got that, fairy?" Bowers bellowed in the beaten boy's face._

_His only response was a lifeless nod, and that seemed to tick Henry off more; he backhanded the younger boy. Coke bottle glasses flew a few feet away, the lenses most likely littered with additional cracks and scratches._

_It was a shit-show. Eddie only wished he had the tenacity to defend the frail teenager. Instead, he stood, hidden, until Bowers and his gang left their victim to the biting chill of Maine's late-autumn evening._

_Eddie took the opportunity to rush over, collapsing to his knees next to the seemingly half-dead teenager lying in the football field._

"Oh god, shit, what did they _do_ to you?"

The boy, who Eddie decided he would nickname Bruises until he discovered his actual name, was covered in just that; yellow and purple bruises that couldn't have been as recent as the beating he'd suffered minutes before along his cheekbones and around his watery, squinted eyes (the not-nearly-as-bloodied-up boy found that the twinkle of Bruises' tears was quite enamoring); blood slipping from his temple, dripping from his nostrils and lips, and cutting across the bridge of his nose. He had ebony hair that puffed wildly over his eyes and around his head. He was a mess, but it was a charming mess.

It scared Eddie, but the attraction didn't scare him nearly as much as when pulling Bruises up into his lap caused a wince to tear across the beaten boy's face. "Huh- h-hurts-" he mumbled, and Eddie watched as those big, contused eyes closed and teardrops slipped down into the cuts along his face. It couldn't have been comfortable to have salty water dripping into your bloodstream, and Eddie could nearly feel the sting, but Bruises showed no signs of it hurting.

Snapping out of his daze, Eddie came to the unnerving conclusion that Bruises was drifting off. "Hey, hey, stay the fuck awake," he insisted. It came out harsher than he intended.

The corners of Bruises' busted lips quirked into a smirk. "I would, but... but you really.. really knock me out, Freckles."

Eddie scoffed at the boy and at the leap in his own heartbeat, in turn fogging the air around them. "That would be Henry Bowers knocking you out, and it's Eddie. You've got freckles, too, asshole." They were actually quite nice on his tainted cheeks; like chocolate sprinkles on a cake that wasn't evenly coated with vanilla icing, so that in some places, the dark bread showed through in the form of bruises. However, Bruises' bruises weren't sweet like dessert; they ached _him_ physically and _Eddie_ emotionally.

The glassy, somewhat oversized eyes opened to blink up at Eddie for a few seconds, perhaps curious or entranced, and then fell shut once more. A hoarse sigh parted Bruises' lips and he whispered, "That's fitting. I'm... uh... wow, Eds, you made me forget my own damn name."

Eddie rolled his eyes, but that did concern him. " _Or_ you have a concussion."

"Just... just a s-ssc-scratch, good sir," Bruises breathed.

Eddie placed his hands on the boy's stomach just to do something with them rather than keep them awkwardly hovering. The boy tensed under his touch, and Eddie hated that with a passion, because he could tell it wasn't just from it hurting; Bruises expected Eddie to hit him. But it also hurt, which it shouldn't have, so something was wrong. Eddie had to find out what that was.

"I'm, um... I'm gonna take your shirt off to check for broken ribs or anything," he said quickly, nerves building up in the back of his thoughts. He hoped Bruises would say no, he wanted— _needed_ —an excuse to not have to look at another boy's chest. It was too intimate, he decided, too intimate for them just meeting. But he felt the need to make sure there were no broken ribs; it was just his nature. He'd been raised to worry.

His face was hot by the time Bruises gave a slight nod. Eddie inhaled heavily, grabbed the hem of the brunet's Pink Floyd t-shirt, and gently tugged it up, pulling it off after Bruises' arms were lifted enough. The whole thing was way too intimate, Eddie concluded, but it was necessary.

Eddie made a distressed sound as his eyes fell on the boy's protruding ribs—avoiding his chest—which were decorated in discolored blooms of bruises. "Fuck," he breathed.

"That... that hot, huh?"

"If you don't shut the _fuck_ up, Bruises..."

"It's Richie," he said, teasing Eddie.

Richie. It suited him.

"Well, _Richie_ , they kicked the shit out of you, didn't they?" he inquired rhetorically; the answer was obvious to them both. Eddie ran his fingertips over the purple flowers beaten into Richie's sides. Richie shuddered under his hands. "You'll be okay, just be careful with your ribs. They might be broken. They probably are, actually—you look like you don't even eat. Do you want your shirt back on? It's fucking freezing." That, and he didn't want the option to stare.

"Mm.. later..." he mumbled, too worn out to care for putting it back on.

Eddie sighed, mumbling, "It's not my fault if you get a cold, then," and avoiding anymore of Richie's torso as he returned his inspection to Richie's face. Blood, sweat, and tears streaked down the boy's forehead, cheeks, and lips, so Eddie unzipped his fanny packs to retrieve his colorful band-aids, cotton balls, and rubbing alcohol. "This is going to burn, just stay still. It'll help."

Richie poked his tongue out playfully. "I'm tough, Eds, I'll be okay."

"I _hate_ that, do _not_ call me that," Eddie muttered while wetting a cotton ball with rubbing alcohol. He gently pressing it to Richie's temple, where the blood had begun to clot but the skin was still torn. "Can you hold this here?"

Richie's arm leisurely lifted from the grass and replaced Eddie's hand with his own. This allowed the medically-knowledgeable teenager to continue cleaning up the scrawny motherfucker's face until there was a blue band-aid across his nose, a purple one on his eyebrow, and he finished deliberately positioning a pink band-aid over a new cotton ball on his temple.

Eddie wiped down Richie's face again with an antiseptic wipe, making sure to rid him of blood stains and tear streaks. As he did all of this, he tried to ignore how cute the little freckles that sprinkled his face so lightly you had to be _close_ to see them were, and how the faint bruises and bags around his eyes complimented his skin and made Eddie's heart tear into a million pieces, and how much his fluffy, disheveled hair fit his personality and his face and made Eddie want to card his hands through it.

The sun was nearly set by the time he was done, and when it fell behind the trees, the final rays lit Richie's lightly-freckled cheeks on fire. Eddie's heart began slamming into his chest, as if it was trying to rip out of his ribs and kiss every inch of Richie's face.

But that was bad. That wasn't right, that wasn't _healthy_. So he forced it down and forgot about it, instead worrying about how Richie was shivering, and wondering why he was wearing shorts and a t-shirt when he was so thin, and bothering himself with the topic of just _why_ he was so very undeniably skinny.

The eyelashes that fanned Richie's cheeks suddenly lifted, revealing cosmic, dancing eyes. The setting sun made it seem like all the stars had been amalgamated together to form a fireball of sight which had fallen on Eddie. Richie blinked once, twice, and then the corners of those eyes crinkled from a smirk spreading across his pale, bruised cheeks. "You like what you see, Eddie Spaghetti?"

Eddie sighed and pursed his lips out of frustration. "You like running your fucking mouth, Richie? I mean seriously, do you ever shut the hell up?" he snapped.

Richie's eye twitched, and Eddie felt a pang of regret as he saw the flash of hurt. "I can't, your mom likes to keep her legs open."

Eddie paused for a moment to filter through what the teenager in his lap had said, and then gasped when he understood. "I- y-you- wha- what? That's disgusting, you're disgusting!" he whined, gently pushing Richie off his legs and standing up. "Do you want me to walk you home?" After yet another worrisome thought crossed his mind, he asked, " _Can_ you walk home?"

"Hows about we foind out, young chap!" Richie exclaimed in a weird accent (one of his Voices, although Eddie didn't know this yet).

Eddie held out his hand for Richie and tugged him to his feet. Then, he released him, allowing the boy with far too many bruises to stand on his own. Eddie discreetly wiped his hand off on his shorts, the habit of a boy terrified of germs, after returning the band tee to its owner.

"I can't see a single fucking thing but your gaping vagina, Eduardo."

Right, the kid had glasses. Glasses that were more than likely shattered beyond use, but Eddie picked them up off the ground a few feet away anyway along with what must've been Richie's backpack. Surprisingly, only one crack split through one of the lenses. Eddie found himself sliding them onto Richie's face, standing much closer than necessary, but as soon as the job was done, he took an exaggerated step away from the other boy. He passed him his bag from a distance and squatted to put away his first-aid supplies and get his own bag. Shame dripped from his mind to his heart, until he realized he was staring down at beaten Converse.

Richie was standing right in front of him, a halo around his head from the setting sun and a grin split across his face. "Me finks Eds is a bit lonely, ay?" he chided, tapping Eddie's nose with the hand that wasn't stuffed down his pocket.

Eddie reeled backwards on his heels, nearly losing balance and falling. "What are you, trying to give me AIDS?"

"Just some good lovin', Eddie, my love!"

For what had to be the billionth time, Eddie's cheeks burned and his heart skipped. "Yeah, well I don't need you and your- your shit accents! What the fuck even is that, anyway?"

That seemed to get under Richie's skin, but not for too long, unless he was that good at hiding things. "Now tell me, good sire, where is the accent... 'Shit' from?"

The sun set with those words, and all the pair had left was a sky of pinks and oranges and yellows as they "tried" to beat the curfew.

As the pair trailed along the sidewalk, Eddie mumbled, "My mom's gonna spazz," He was _absolutely distraught_ by idea, because the thought of not only having to spend another living second with _Richie_ , of _all_ other people who were _so_ much better than his charming jokes and goofy smile, but also terrifying his _poor_ , _beloved_ mother? He could _never_! He _couldn't_ , _wouldn't_ , and the gods knew he _shouldn't_. He was already late as it was, so they would have to hurry!

He slowed his pace notably. Richie fell behind with him.

"You bet, with my wang? She'll be spazzing all ni-"

Eddie groaned. "You're exhausting."

"That's what she said."

"For fuck's sake, Richie."

Eddie tried his best to ignore the fondness that he felt for Richie's awful sense of humor and continued walking and talking with him all the way to his own house.

Half an hour of enduring his mother's incessant worrying later, Eddie flopped backwards onto his bed and asked himself what the fuck he had just started with the boy with bruises that claimed his injuries were just a scratch.

▼

Pulling on his backpack weeks later, Eddie decided that school was utterly useless. All it did was force children to memorize hundreds of pages of knowledge, half of which most of them would never use and would eventually forget. That was another thing; why spend twelve years teaching children things that aren't beneficial to surviving in this world? Why not let them choose what they learn early on and have, per se, their parents teach them the basic necessities? Then, life would be so much easier.

Instead, he threw his leg over his bike and began pedaling to school through a frigid breeze and flurries of ice. After what had happened that late November day, he vowed to never sleep in again.

_Fuck school, he had thought to himself, snuggling further into his pillow as he heard the engine of his mother's car start up. He fell asleep like that, only to be awoken roughly two hours later by his mother, red in the face, demanding to know why she had to be called by the school from work to get him._

_She had driven him to school that day, leaving his bike behind. Afterwards, it was fairly normal, at least until it ended. He had to get home, but Sonia was still at work, meaning he had to walk._

_He had sighed and decided to go through the football field. When he saw who else had made the same decision, he ducked behind the bleachers and shot off on his inhaler. Eddie stared in sheer horror from the shadows of the bleachers, witnessing each punch and kick into the bespectacled boy's body—mainly his stomach and face._

_"Fucking faggot! Don't ever fucking talk to my cousin again, you got that, fairy?"_

That wasn't to say that he wasn't happy about the outcome, but...

_"Come here, pretty boy!" Patrick Hockstetter cackled, chasing Eddie on his bike. The older teen was tall, far too tall. The psychotic dominance made Eddie want to puke and scream and die._

_Henry Bowers let out what resonated as a roar, yelling, "I'm gonna fucking rip out your lungs, Wheezy!"_

_Eddie didn't think he'd ever pedaled so fast, prompted by the desperation to get away from them. He didn't even think twice about the freezing temperatures giving him a life-threatening flu and killing him; he'd rather die to that than to Victor Criss, or Belch Huggins, or Henry Bowers, or—this person was somehow even worse—Patrick Hockstetter._

_This happened several times throughout the following months (November, December, and the beginning of January; Richie and Eddie would joke that during the latter month, Henry's balls froze off, because he had stopped picking as many fights with them unless he was especially riled up that day), sometimes resulting in breakdowns at midnight or having to care for and hide his wounds so Sonia didn't "flip her shit," as Richie so elegantly phrased it._

...Sometimes he wondered if it was really worth getting chased and beaten to his wits end. However, when he saw Richie, smiling or otherwise, with Eddie's colorful band-aids plastered on his skin and cheesy jokes falling from his lips like leaves from a tree, he knew that it was.

He rolled his bike into the rack and molded into the crowd of students pouring into the school routinely. His inner monologue was still rambling about the pointlessness of the building he trudged through almost daily when Richie bumped into his side.

"Eddie Spaghetti, m'boy!" he cheered, throwing an arm over Eddie's shoulder, and the shorter boy found himself questioning every quickened heartbeat and stomach flip this wreck had caused him. He pondered this whilst ignoring the feelings in question.

"Why are you like this?" he muttered adoringly as he fiddled with the lock and yanked open his locker. He carelessly dropped four textbooks to the bottom. The gunshot-esque bang erupting upon contact and drawing the attention of probably the entire hallway of sleep-deprived, irritable teenagers perfectly highlighted exactly how the day—Monday—already felt.

Richie frowned, pushing his glasses up his nose, "Your mom being a bitch again?"

Eddie elbowed him gently, playfully—he would never hurt Richie Tozier intentionally, never—and slammed his locker shut. " _Yeah_ , but you don't have to say it like that!" He paused with a sigh before elaborating, "She's making me take more pills, something about 'the cold making me sleep too much'. These ones give me awful fucking headaches, but if I tell her she'll just give me more."

"Well then I'll just give her more tonight." Despite the awful joke, Richie touched Eddie's arm comfortingly.

"I will _literally_ stop talking to you."

"No you wouldn't," Richie chuckled, beaming down at Eddie and ruffling his hair.

Eddie scoffed and fixed his hair. "You wanna bet, Trashmouth?"

"Aw, you don't have to pay m-"

Richie was yanked back by his backpack. He fell sprawling on the floor of the hallway, where he was stepped on by nearly a dozen people before he could get himself up to defend Eddie from being thrown against the locker.

"Henry, maybe we shouldn't..." the two younger and three older boys heard Victor Criss' concerned voice. "We'll be late."

"You really think I give two fucks?" Henry snapped and nodded at Belch. This action seemed to be their cue for Belch to, well, _belch_ in Eddie's face.

The asthmatic lurched, slamming his head into the locker in an attempt to get far, far away from his tormentors. Somewhere he was free. A field of daisies. Clear blue skies. Warm, but not too warm suns. Richie's smile. A nice place just for them.

Patrick, who was holding him against the lockers, chuckled, and the simple sound made Eddie completely shut down. His head lolled to the side as he tried to fight back tears. He felt pathetic, absolutely and utterly pathetic. He felt worthless. On top of that, he had a huge fucking headache. All of this made him wonder: _was Richie worth it?_

He felt like he was watching the following events unfold from outside of his body, like he was disconnected. He'd had plenty asthma attacks and he figured they were similar to panic attacks, but this, he'd later realize, was a panic attack: internalized, completely shattering, leaving the person a shaky, breathless disaster.

Eddie gasped, his senses rushing back to him in one overwhelming wave as Henry's fist collided with Richie's jaw on the floor of the hallway. Richie stirred only slightly after that. Rage boiled Eddie's blood. He thrashed in Patrick's arms, kicking and yelling in an attempt to get to Richie. "Get off of me, you fucking creep! Let! Me! Go!" And with the fury of a bear whose food had been taken from him, he slammed his head into Patrick's.

He was stunned for a long moment, his head dully aching from the inside out. Then, he came to and immediately started kicking Henry in the side. "You little shit! Get off of him!" he cried, kicking harder the longer it took.

The teacher in the nearest classroom was the one to come to their aid, shouting at Henry and his goons, and Eddie made eye contact with Richie right before Henry struck him one last time.

Eddie watched the four psychos flee along with the bubble of people watching the fight. Richie was abandoned in a crumpled pile on the floor, yet the teacher didn't help them any further, meaning Eddie was given the task of being late to escort a limp, trampled Richie to the office.

It took several reassurances from Mrs. Audra, the school nurse and one of the only adults who seemed to really care for the kids of Derry, for Eddie to leave Richie's side.

He didn't bother trying to focus in his classes. Instead, he allowed his mind to run wild with anxiety and confusion and drown in its delusional overthinking while he stared at each of his desks.

The question kept coming up: was Richie really worth it? Was it worth one person to get beat up twice or more a week, and chased throughout the school (sometimes throughout the entire town)?

His life would be easier if he didn't associate with Richie, but easy isn't necessarily better. If he was honest with himself, Richie made him happy. Really, really happy—he was his only friend after all. Aside from the consequences named Henry, Victor, Belch, and _Patrick_ , being friends with Richie was practically all he could ask for.

His worrying was interrupted when the intercom called over his sixth period class. "Edward Kaspbrak, please come to the front office; Edward Kaspbrak, please come to the front office."

Fear flooded over him like cold water, chilling him to his very core.

He grabbed his work and his bag, slipped out of his seat, and hurried out of the classroom and down the painfully long hallways. He panicked the entire way, feeling like a man who got pulled over speeding to his wife's funeral.

"So," Principal Mulholland sighed as Eddie sat in the seat between Richie and Victor. Henry, Patrick, and Belch were on Victor's other side, and Eddie felt almost comfortable there, but Victor still sneered at him, and he found himself edging into Richie's side nervously. "You six decided to have a cat fight in the middle of the halls before classes even started. According to Richard, it was unprovoked. According to Henry, you two boys," he eyed Richie and Eddie over his glasses, "Were being a couple of... _sissies_ , for lack of a better word, and he wanted to beat it out of you. For your own sake."

Eddie gritted his teeth and pursed his lips, thirty-two bones, a bunch of muscles, and his last ounce of self-control being the only things keeping him from exploding on the adult in this situation. He balled his fists and bounced his leg, and Richie must have taken the hint that he'd better use that loud mouth of his and get them out of this, because he decided to speak.

"And you're going to take his side because... you think we're gay."

God damn it, Richie.

"You're- you're an _adult_ , and you're going to side with violence because of _rumors_ that two sixteen-year-old boys are into each other. We were minding our own business and they jumped us! For no reason! And you're letting them get away with it?"

Eddie tapped Richie's arm and cast a small glare up at him. "What Richie _means_ is that they had no reason to attack us, but they did. They started it and we defended ourselves. Sure, they may have had some..." he hesitated, gnawing on his lip and truly, thoroughly hating himself and every boy he'd ever cast a second glance at. "Some more... _agreeable_... reasons to jump us, but violence is inexcusable. Richie was beaten to unconsciousness in your hallways. You've got to take action, and the good choice is not punishing the victims. If you must, punish the bullies, too."

Principal Mulholland swallowed and rubbed his hands, and Eddie decided that he'd sided with him. "Edward makes a valid point. Henry, Patrick, and Reginald, you three will serve a week of detention. Victor, since you didn't hit anyone, you're off the hook with a warning, and Richard and Edward... this afternoon, detention."

Eddie and Richie were fuming as they left Mulholland's office. "I can't believe- I'm so- I had to- I- I fucking- I said 'agreeable reasons'," Eddie stumbled over his words until he managed to get to his point. "That- I- _feelings_ are not reasons to be beaten like that! I can't believe I said that!"

Richie was silent, but Eddie could tell he was bristling and ready to explode, so he turned into the nearest boys' bathroom, and Richie followed. They stuffed themselves into a stall, Richie sat on the toilet, and Eddie stood awkwardly in the center, trying to avoid any surfaces.

"Go ahead."

" _Cock_ stetter had his hands all over you," was the first thing to come out of Richie's mouth. "And- and- and the way he was _laughing_ , he- he _hurt_ you, and they're getting away with a _week_? Because they think _we're_ the problem?" Richie was clenching and releasing his hands angrily, and Eddie fought the urge to fill them with his own and be Richie's lifeline. "It's not our fault! We- we aren't like that, anyways-" Eddie wondered if he heard regret in Richie's tone, but the boy pressed on. "But even if we _were_ , they didn't have to beat us! As if torturing gay people is beneficial to anyone! God, I could rake out their fucking eyes and _show_ them something beneficial!

"...But Patrick was _touching_ you, he was holding you there and he was grabbing you, and- and-"

"Rich," Eddie mumbled, stopping Richie. He offered his best friend a small, adoring smile. "I'm alright, but... you aren't." He took the risk to step forward a bit, fit himself between Richie's legs, and reached forward slowly. Richie flinched away at first, his eyes wide and staring at the hand close to his face. "Hey," Eddie whispered, and Richie reluctantly looked at Eddie's face instead. He relaxed, and Eddie's hand gingerly cupped Richie's cheek. The boy squeezed his eyes shut, taking a deep breath, and Eddie rubbed his thumb over a cut on Richie's cheek. It was close to the scar that branched across the bridge of Richie's nose from his fight with Bowers months before. "Did it hurt?"

Richie relaxed further and, upon opening his eyes, smiled innocently up at Eddie and leaned into the short hypochondriac's palm. "When I fell from Heaven?"

Eddie scowled, pushing Richie's shoulders halfheartedly. "No, you ass! When Bowers beat the life out of you."

"Wanna gimme any specifics, Chief?"

Eddie huffed. " _Today_."

Richie pursed his lips and looked away. Eddie felt the slightest hint of a nod under his hand, and he brushed his index finger over a bruise on Richie's temple comfortingly.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I can make it better?"

Richie glanced at him from the corner of his eye. "Kiss it better?"

Eddie furrowed his eyebrows, but a Cheshire grin spread across his face after a little thought. He carefully pushed Richie's glasses up to rest on his head—inevitably pushing his hair back, as well. When he got a better look at the boy in front of him, his heart slammed into his ribs and his breath caught; Richie was... he was...

With his hair out of his face and without his huge coke bottle glasses, Richie looked older. More mature. His pale skin brought out his dark-yet-lively eyes, which brought out the splatters of freckles staining his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Eddie had never really paid much mind to the depth of those eyes except for when the sun had hit them just right that fateful day. They sparkled with pure childishness, but there was a fear buried there in the way his pupils shot around and his eyebrows drew into a worried expression.

With every moment that passed, Richie's cheeks and ears tinted rosier under the scrutiny, and little strands of ebony slipped from their bondage behind Richie's spectacles. The sight was breathtaking in the most literal sense.

"You alright, Eds? You don't look like you're breathing much, there, bud... Eds?"

Eddie blinked and came to life. His heart was still racing in his chest, and he found that his palms were sweaty, and his knees were weak. "Y-yeah, yeah, I'm- I'm good, what? Pshh, _yeah_ , never better!" He cleared his throat nervously. "What do you mean?"

Richie quirked an eyebrow, and the air escaped Eddie's lungs again. "Nothin', you just looked a bit... dazed, for a second. Like how your mom was last night when I got through with h-"

"Beep beep, dumbass," Eddie rolled his eyes, but grinned nonetheless. "It's just... you look good without your glasses and all that fucking hair in your face."

Richie snorted. "I can't see without my glasses, Eds, how'd you come to _that_ conclusion?"

"God, your humor is insufferable!" Eddie laughed and pushed Richie's glasses back onto his nose carelessly. Richie had to adjust them, but he didn't mention it.

Instead, he puffed out his lip in a pout and looked up at Eddie through his eyelashes. "So no kiss?"

Eddie was paralyzed for a moment as a full-body shudder planted goosebumps all over his arms and legs and his ears began to burn. He almost didn't react, but after just a moment, he put his hands on his hips and scoffed, shaking his head and pursing his lips. "Insufferable!"

"My humor is so good that you're not suffering when you hear it, is what I'm hearing, Spaghetti Man!"

After the bell rang, the two boys returned to their classes, but not before Richie got that kiss. Eddie had planted it on the bruise on Richie's temple in the hopes it would heal that bruise and the rest that tattered and tainted Richie's body. He didn't say a word about the flicker of fear he saw in the boy's eyes when Eddie moved towards him. Then, he had grinned at Richie, unlocked the stall, and disappeared into the flood of students before someone could catch them in a stall together.

When, at the end of the day, Eddie saw Richie walk out of the front office with his mother (the boy had directed a flirtatious smirk at Eddie along with a wink and a motion to a giant new bruise on his jaw, and Eddie had only rolled his eyes, cracked a grin, and waved) and his previous anxieties were lifted successfully by the one and only Richie Tozier, he decided that his best friend was worth every beating Eddie received because of him.

▼


	2. Two Birds, No Stone. Don't Throw Stones At Birds, Jackass

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 **Richie rolled his and Eddie's** bikes out of the rack frantically, desperate to get them away from the approaching group of psychopaths. "Pedal, Eds!" he commanded in one of his Voices as he haphazardly pushed Eddie's bike in the boy's direction and clambered onto his own bike.

Eddie had noticed a pattern; every time Richie or the people around him were anxious, he'd start speaking in Voices. It was a coping mechanism of sorts, and it made Eddie feel terrible for every time he'd said something harsh about them (which happened to be a lot. He realized he could be a bit of an ass).

The pair of losers scrambled to get on their bikes and pedal away from the school, Bowers, and his band of assholes. They managed to get a fair head start before their tormentors could even get on their own bikes and begin chasing them down.

Eddie's thoughts were still stuck on Richie by the time the duo were off school property. That's what he decided to blame when he looked over at the teenager biking beside him.

Richie was stood on his bike rather than sitting, a huge beam split across his flushed cheeks and wind lashing his face and whipping his hair in wild directions as they raced down a hill. The sight of pure joy made butterflies flutter in Eddie's stomach. Richie Tozier's excitement was contagious enough to make even the disease-fearing Eddie Kaspbrak let out a spirited shout, as if they'd beaten the devil.

Richie whipped his head around to gape at Eddie, probably not expecting such a sound from him. Knowing Richie's eyes were now on him, feeding him the attention he insatiably craved, Eddie felt a strange empowerment. He felt like he could do anything in that moment. He puffed out his chest and beamed, his grip on the handlebars built up by his rising confidence.

Turns out, Richie didn't make him entirely invincible.

One of the tires hit a pothole just at the bottom of the hill, and before he knew it he was flailing through the air. Temporarily, he got to know how it felt to fly. It felt oddly nostalgic, like deja vu (like he'd floated this way before). Then, he slammed into the grass just next to the sidewalk at the foot of the hill, sufficiently breaking the spell.

First, the pain was centered in his head; his head ached like his brain was bruising, swelling, growing so big that it would bust through his skull.

Then, his entire body began throbbing in sheer agony. His back was probably broken. He could imagine the billions of shattered bits of bone splitting through all his vital organs and arteries, his spinal cord tearing and permanently paralyzing him. He'd be in a coma forever. Always on the brink of death but never quite being given that freedom. They'd eventually have to just unplug the cord.

But after a moment, his body let out an involuntary, choked wail, a quiet plead for Richie. _Hurry up and get your stupid ass over here_ , he begged internally, _before I die_.

"Eddie, holy fuck!" he heard over the deafening ringing in his ears, and he would've smiled, because that was probably the first time he'd heard his _actual_ name come from the boy's mouth in weeks. So he would've smiled, but everything hurt too much; even his eyes, which were closed but still stung from tears.

Sobs began tearing through his body when Richie's hands gently gripped his. It was a futile attempt to try to soothe Eddie; Richie didn't know what else to do.

"Fucker! Fucking fuck, fuck me up... Fuck!" Richie muttered, and if Eddie didn't feel like he was going to die in that moment, he would've chuckled and made a remark about that being the extent of the crude boy's vocabulary. "Hey, you two yunguns! Stutterin' Bill! Yeah, and that Jewish kid, get on ovah heyuh!" Richie yelled in a Voice.

Part of Eddie wanted to slap Richie, but he also really wanted to hug the concerned boy. He sounded like how Eddie's entire body felt: broken.

"What is it, Trashmou- holy mother of god, is he okay?" someone whose voice Eddie didn't recognize asked.

Richie was about to say something really sarcastic or really stupid. Or both, knowing him.

"Yessir, he merely was launched about a dozen meters into the stratosphere and got fucked in the arse by gravity, totally okay, gents, I just wanted to yell at you for absolutely no goddamn reason." This was the British guy, Eddie presumed.

"Qui-" Eddie wheezed as he attempted to scold Richie. It felt like his chest was being compressed by a ton of weight, making it difficult to even breathe. The rising dread only caused his throat to close up even more. His thoughts scattered into a hazy panic. He gasped for breath, and a jolt of pain shot up his back and through his ribs. He slowly let out the breath, shuddering as his nerves were left on the line between relief and pain.

With way too much energy put in to such a simple action, he reached out his hand in what he assumed was Richie's direction. When Richie connected their hands in response, he was able to relax a little more. Another heavy, painful breath later and he was trying again, mumbling, "Quit being a... a... a bitch."

Richie squeezed Eddie's hand. "He's hurt," he told the two he'd brought over. No adults had even spared the boys a second glance. "I don't know what the fuck to do."

There was a pause before a soft-spoken but confident voice asked, "D-duh-doesn't- doesn't he hah-hh-have as-a-asthm- asthm-ma?"

"Yeah, how did you know? You been watchin' him, Billy Boy?" Richie teased in a strange accent that was probably meant to be southern. Eddie wasn't sure what it was, but something about the boy holding his hand yet accusing someone else of having less-than-normal feelings for him kind of... hurt.

"Nnn-no, dumb a-ass. It's hhha-hard n-not- not to n-nn-notice a kid huh-having a f-fuh-fucking- fucking asthma att-t-attack in th-the m-m-middle of th-the hallw-w-way."

Eddie gripped Richie's hand, giving a slight nod and hoping he understood. When he felt one of his fanny packs being unzipped, he was only slightly relieved; Richie was actually staying focused on the pressing matter, but his hand was gone. Eddie felt dread creep up his possibly-shattered spine, impending doom making his blood run cold and goosebumps bristle along his arms and legs despite being wrapped in a sweater and pants to protect from the chill. If he didn't have something—Richie—to hold on to, he was going to float away into the abyss.

"How does this thing even work?" Richie questioned.

"Here," the first voice, most likely the "Jewish kid," offered. He must have been showing Richie how the inhaler worked, because a moment later, Eddie heard a small "oh" from his best friend.

Then came another one of Richie's Voices. "Open up, baby!"

Eddie slowly opened his eyes and groaned as he stared directly into what was visible of the sun. "Wh... what th.. what the h-" His rasping was cut short by Richie not-so-gracefully shoving the inhaler down Eddie's throat. Richie pressed the canister, squirting the spray down the asthmatic's throat and forcing him to breathe in. Intense relief washed over Eddie's rib cage as the pressure was taken off his lungs and he gasped for more air. "Fuck," he muttered a moment later when he was properly breathing. He wiped uncontrollable tears on his sleeve. "Fuck! Fuck Henry Bowers, fuck Patrick Hockstetter, fuck them all!"

"You talking about us, Girly Boy?" Bower's voice called from not far enough away. Not far enough at all.

Eddie scrambled to rip the inhaler out of Richie's grip as his throat began closing up once more. They were going to die, he had concluded. At the hands of Bowers, no less.

"Sh-shhit!" the boy Richie had called Stuttering Bill stammered. "Yuh-yuh-y-you- you wwere- you were ruh-runn-ning fff-from- from- from Buh-B-Bow-w-wers?"

"Can he, uh... Christ, can he get up?" The "Jewish Kid" inquired, prompting Eddie to attempt to stand; he couldn't even sit up all the way before he was wheezing. He shot off on the inhaler again.

Hockstetter's words traveled to them in a bone-chilling singsong voice. "We're gonna get you, Flamer! You and your fairies, too!"

"S-ss-screw- screw it," Bill muttered and stepped forward to, in a swift movement, lift Eddie into his arms and carry him to his own bike. Eddie hissed, but tried to be strong. "Sorry ab-b- ab-..." he trailed off, frustrated. "Your b-b-bike." Eddie nodded in understanding as Bill set him on the seat and sat in front of him. "J-just w-w-wr-wrap... just wrap y-your a-a-arms ar-arou-around my w-w-wais-st."

By the time Eddie was secure, Bowers' gang was charging toward them and cackling madly.

The four losers scrambled to get on their bikes and raced through Derry for the first time together. Each of them were frantic to get away from Henry, Patrick, Belch, and Victor, but Eddie did slow them down as they tried to make sure he wouldn't get hurt by bumps in the road.

Despite the space between himself and the group of psychopaths they were on the run from, Eddie still found himself shaking and breathing shallowly. He clung to Bill desperately and tried to breathe. Just breathe.

Cars and careless adults were just a blurry haze, but the many distractions helped to ease Eddie's mind (instead of worrying about dying at the hands of a psychopath, he was worried about Bill crashing, or Richie or the Jewish boy whose name he still didn't know getting caught by Bowers). His shoulders relaxed due to his focus not being on his own pain and, in turn, his back ached less. He leaned into Bill's warmth and figured he could get used to zigzagging between Derry alleyways and through parks, cold puddles from the recent bout of rain splashing under their bike tires as they tried to escape their tormentors.

" _Hi-yo, Silver_! _Away_!"

Eddie giggled into Bill's flannel at the strange outburst. As they barreled down a steep hill, Eddie sat up and howled with delight just like he had before, only this time he didn't run into a pothole and break his back.

With his previous pain and dread relieved, he could finally feel freedom—like a bird gliding with the wind after an April shower, or the view of distant hills and forests at the top of a mountain he spent all day hiking, or maybe even jumping off cliffs into a lake. Eddie wouldn't know, but deep down in his core, he felt the nipping gust was slowly unlocking his chains and shattering his binds. The links cuffing him to his mother, to his hypochondria, to his asthma, to Henry Bowers and Patrick Hockstetter, were being demolished by finally being saved. Saved by a group of boys he could— _would_ —learn to love.

The four teens turned a corner, riding into a more neighborly neighborhood that was somehow lively, even during the most dead season of the year. Eddie smiled at the kids playing outside of one of the houses.

"You boys get in here and put coats on!" a woman called fondly from the doorway. The group of boys jumped up, giggling, and raced into the house—they nearly knocked the woman off her feet as they ran by, but she didn't seem to mind that much. She only rolled her eyes and watched them, probably ransacking the house while they had a chance, with a content smile.

It was a fleeting sight, but it warmed Eddie's heart in spite of the chill, and he couldn't help wondering if he would be like those kids if his mother wasn't so obsessed with making him delicate and soft and _scared_.

 _I'm not scared now, Ma_ , he thought confidently and imagined his mother's mortified expression with a twinge of satisfaction. _What are you gonna do about it?_

Led by Bill (and Eddie), the set of best friends veered into the driveway of a tall, gray home. Planted in the front yard was a garden full of dead flowers, and Eddie let himself picture how lovely the garden must look in the summer.

Bill was the one to explain where they were as they all began clambering off their bikes. "Th-this is my h-hou-house. They- they're duh-dumb. They wouldn't th-thi-think to- to check here."

Eddie noticed that Richie arrived a few moments later than them, along with Eddie's own bike, and the notion made him smile bashfully. He purposefully bumped his shoulder into Richie's when he took the handles from him, and the grin he received from the taller boy immediately distracted him from the huge dent in the side of the metal of his bike and the scratch in the black paint from it scraping against the asphalt of the road.

The group abandoned their bicycles in the garage as Bill told them to keep quiet ("George is probably napping," he elaborated with a faint smile). Of course, as soon as they walked in, Richie tripped on the doormat and knocked over a table with a framed family photo on it, making a loud clatter. The only quiet part of it was his muffled cursing, which was silenced by the carpet he'd landed face-first on, thankfully.

"Bill, is that you?" a man's voice, presumably Bill's father, carried from farther in the house.

Bill was swift to respond, "Y-yes, s-ssir! S-sor- sorry. I b-br-br-brought a f-few friends over!"

Eddie snickered as Richie picked himself up off the ground, rubbing his nose. "Are- are you alright?" he questioned through laughter as he helped his best friend lift the table back up and put the picture where it once was, thankfully not broken.

"Shut up," the taller boy pouted as he pushed his glasses up his nose and rubbed his arm.

Eddie rolled his eyes, still giggling a little. "Alright, alright, _I'm sorry_ ," he mended, surrendering to Richie's sulking stare.

The four of them looked up as Bill's parents walked in. They both offered welcoming smiles, but Eddie noticed Richie had gone rigid beside him, and their smiles did nothing alleviate his fear. Eddie subtly brushed his fingertips over Richie's arm, fixing him with a worried look. He merely shrugged and relaxed his posture, but his face was still screwed up with stress. Eddie wasn't sure what he could do to help Richie, so he shifted just a bit closer so that their arms brushed.

Eddie hadn't been paying any attention to anyone except for Richie until Mr. Denbrough turned his attention to them. They both looked away; they felt like test subjects being examined or job applicants being scrutinized. "And who are these boys?"

Eddie was first to introduce himself, and a pitying look crossed Mrs. Denbrough's face as she realized whose son he was. Then, Richie was introduced, and it was clear that the Denbroughs were less than impressed, but they smiled and welcomed him into their home anyways, which he was grateful for—he wasn't sure what he'd do if they reprimanded Bill for even breathing the same air as Richie, which he figured they probably should.

The three teenagers followed Bill upstairs and into his room. There were all sorts of movie posters and space models, and Eddie found himself wishing he had a room as nice as Bill's. But that wasn't the matter at hand, he reminded himself when his knees stung. He tossed his backpack onto Bill's bed and plopped down next to it, unzipped his fanny pack, and immediately started rambling.

"Oh god, this went way too long without being tended to, it's gonna get infected or- or something! Do you know how many people walk on that disgusting sidewalk- or even the road! Did I hit the road? Can you imagine what got in this from cars? That's disgusting! I could be in the hospital right now—I probably need to be!"

"Eddie!" the boy, whose name Eddie still didn't know, cut in. He had his hands thrown out and his eyebrows raised. "Stop! You'll be fine, it's just a scratch!"

Eddie gawked at him for a long while, surprised someone he didn't even know would snap at him like that, but rolled eyes and muffled snickers snapped him out of it, and he quickly nodded and fell silent to focus on rubbing antibiotic cream onto the graze.

"Juh-juh-jeez, Sss-Stan, go easy o-on huh-hh-hi-him." Bill grinned, knocking his fist into Stan's shoulder, and Stan just huffed, smiled, and gazed fondly at Bill. Eddie knew that look. He didn't think any more about it.

After Eddie was finished patching up his knees, the two pairs of best friends got to know each other a little better. Eddie and Richie were informed that Stan's name was actually Stanley, and Bill's name was actually William, but he liked Bill better. Bill and Stanley were childhood best friends who had never really had very many other friends.

"That's really cool!" Eddie had commented. "Well, maybe not the not having very many other friends part, but you guys have been friends for so long! I met this fucker a few months ago 'cause he got his ass kicked by Bowers."

Stanley laughed at that and almost got to say something until Richie butted in to defend himself, saying, "No, I _fought_ with him! It was an equal amount of hurt on both sides, thank you very much, Dr. K."

"Mhm, so him leaving you to die on the ground and you not moving is what you call 'equal hurt'?" Eddie asked, making Stanley laugh harder.

Richie gaped at Stanley and Bill. "Help me here! This'n's vicious, 's a Tasmanian devil!"

"Is that supposed to be a Southern accent?" Stanley inquired.

"Yeehowdy, it sure is!"

"D-ddoes- doesn't suh-hound like one," Bill teased.

Eddie, who was sitting next to Richie with his legs folded and his left knee overlapping Richie's right, glanced sympathetically at the boy from the corner of his eye. The lanky boy was leaned back on his hands and taking up as much space as he could, but at the moment he seemed to be curling in on himself, pulling his leg to rest atop Eddie's and leaning into the small ball of anger. Eddie knew how Richie felt about people making fun of his coping mechanism, and he didn't want his best friend hurting, so he relied on instinct.

Discreetly as he could, Eddie slipped his fingers into Richie's. There wasn't much of a reaction, other than half a second of Richie going stiff, then relaxing further into it. Eddie forced down the heat in his neck from the contact, focusing on the conversation being held between Bill and Stanley. But Richie moved his thumb and brushed it across Eddie's knuckles gingerly. It was impossible to ignore the warmth then, as it was pooling from his neck to his ears and into his cheeks like a rip in a pool, or better yet, like a crack in a dam that kept spreading.

Eddie's breath seized up when the thought that he might actually like touching Richie at all, much less holding his hand, crossed his mind. He fumbled in his pocket for his inhaler and fit it between his lips with his free hand. Rather than immediately triggering it, he let himself take deeper breaths. He had his inhaler, he'd be fine, Richie meant well, and these were thoughts that everyone had. He had remember that, or else he'd really have an asthma attack.

He wondered if Richie could feel his heartbeat through his fingers. He could feel Richie's—it was wild and fluttery, but it comforted Eddie. Maybe holding Richie's hand behind their interlocked legs so that their new friends couldn't see wasn't such a bad thing, necessarily. It was just friends comforting each other, nothing else to it. Perfectly platonic.

It took a minute or so, but they both got used to the contact and molded back into easy conversation with Bill and Stan, who were discussing their shared contempt for Henry Bowers. That was something everyone at their school could agree with, Stanley had assumed reasonably.

Eventually, however, Eddie remembered his mother and how she would react to him coming home three whole hours after he should be. It was also getting dark the later it got, and he didn't want to face Derry alone at night. "I've gotta go, guys," he informed his three friends, standing up from Bill's bed. "My mom's going to kill me."

"I'll come with you, Eds," Richie offered and stumbled after Eddie. The two approached the bedroom door as Richie added, "Don't need a precious Spaghetti like you getting kidnapped." He ruffled Eddie's hair playfully and the shorter boy groaned, frustrated. He fixed it with his head hung to hide his grin.

Stanley and Bill walked them to the front door, where they said their goodbyes, and Eddie, who was still sore from his crash (although he hadn't voiced it) thanked them for practically saving his life. Then, it was Richie and Eddie against Derry's dark streets. They rolled their bikes from the garage and began walking alongside each other.

After weeks of walking him home, Richie knew where Eddie's house was like the back of his hand, and it wasn't long until they stood before the asthmatic's inevitable doom.

"I don't want to go," Eddie admitted hastily, staring at the building he'd lived in all his life—in which he'd been fed dozens of different types of pills and been told all sorts of lies about his health. "She's going to ask me so many questions, Richie, what am I supposed to say? She won't let me do anything without asking ever again, I- I'm so fucked, man."

Richie gripped his shoulders and turned him so that they were both facing each other, letting their bikes fall to the ground in the process. "It's gonna be okay, Eds. She'll give herself a heart attack before she can say anything, I'll bet. Just go in there and tell her that you had to redo a few tests or something, like you offered to help clean the school for extra credit. Sounds like you," he added with a giggle, earning himself a swift kick to his foot, but Eddie grinned and nodded.

"I hate that you're right," he laughed. "Thanks, dumbass."

Richie patted his back. "I know, I'm a fucking genius."

Eddie scoffed, "I will slap you."

"Go ahead!" He puckered his lips and tapped his cheek before winking and smirking.

"Ew!" Eddie shrieked, reeling away before laughing. "You're disgusting, I'm going in."

"That's what I told your mom last night!"

"Bye, Richie!"

In a matter of seconds, the door was closed, and Richie was left alone with his bike and the sounds of the night.

▼


	3. Seasons Change But People Don't

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**Since Eddie had managed to** actually make friends, most people decided to lay off picking on him all the time—they still had a go at him every now and then (he had friends, but they were just as much of losers as him), but he didn't dread going to school as much anymore. In fact, for the most part, he looked forward to going. He got to spend hours with Stan and Bill, and _Richie_ , instead of stuck inside of a stuffy house with a crazy lady who never stopped complaining about his health. School was significantly better than that, he figured.

Of course, he was still pushed around and whispered about, but he couldn't really complain as he watched a girl walk out of the bathroom, drenched waist-down in what looked like everything that _should have_ gone down the drain, and some things that very well may have been in a sewer hobo's bowels at one point.

"Holy shit, what happened to you?" Eddie asked, jogging the rest of the way to get to her. Today he had _actually_ been making up a test, so he had assumed there wouldn't be anymore students in the halls to bother him except for Richie, who was supposed to meet him by where he and the girl now stood.

She jumped and whipped her head around, looking like a deer in the headlights. "Oh- oh... Nothing, just..." her eyes flickered away. "Just ran into the trashcan..."

Eddie knew she was lying, but he nodded anyways. "Do you want me to walk you home? I know how..." Richie was really rubbing off on him, wasn't he? "...s _hitty_ , it can be to have to go all the way through town looking like... _garbage_."

The redhead smiled and rolled her eyes. "Thanks, but I'll be alright. What's your name?"

"Eddie, yours?"

"Beverly."

"Well, Beverly-" he began, being cut off by the one and only.

" _Eddie_!" Richie whined as he pushed open the supply closet door. "I really don't feel like coming out of the closet right now."

Eddie's face flushed before he slapped his hand over it, trying his damnedest not to laugh at such a terrible joke. He giggled anyways, and he knew the tiny sound made Richie proud.

" _Hello_ pretty lady, you- holy shit, what happened to you?" Richie asked.

Beverly glanced between the two of them, a knowing grin on her face—what she knew, Eddie didn't, and he suspected the boy next to him was just as clueless. "You two are practically the same person, huh?"

Richie smirked and Eddie winced, already knowing he had a really strange joke ready to be served. "I mean, I always found myself attractive, but nowhere _near_ as cute as Ed-"

"Richie, I will _strangle_ you," Eddie threatened. " _Anyways_ , Beverly, if you ever need a bunch of fucking _losers_ ," he punched Richie's shoulder affectionately, "to cheer you up, there's double where this came from who aren't half as bad as him."

"I'll keep that in mind," said Beverly with a polite-yet-wicked grin. "See ya, Eddie, Richie."

"Alright, Trashmouth, we've got to have a heart to heart," he said as soon as Beverly was out of earshot.

Richie giggled innocently, and they began walking to the nearest exit while Eddie told him in full detail just how "annoying" he was.

Richie only smiled and nodded throughout the entire lecture, far too busy admiring how cute it was when Eddie tried to get mad at him to actually focus on what he was saying. All he heard was the end, when the tiny boy wasn't as frustrated.

"You can't just be... _flirtatious_ like that... _I mean at least not around other people_ ," he added, stumbling over his words in order to force them out, but quiet enough in the hopes that Richie might not have heard. His cheeks burned red from more than just the February cold, so he turned away, but Richie smiled bashfully nonetheless.

"I do believe Eddie Spaghetti, Eds, Kaspbrak the Clapback likes me jokes!" Because they _were_ jokes. Nothing more, but nothing less, either. "Do they give ya good chucks, Eds? Had any good chucks lately?"

"Beep beep, dumbass," Eddie laughed, and the world seemed just a bit brighter. In that moment, it seemed, everything was lucid and slowed down; Eddie's long eyelashes shading his big, innocent eyes; the tiny, light freckles seasoning his tanned (in spite of it being the middle of fucking winter—it snowed a fucking week ago, damn it), blushing cheeks; the way his lips were parted in a blissful giggle, as if nothing was wrong in the world. Eddie's laughter was gorgeous and silvery and it made victorious fireworks go off in Richie's belly.

"Cute cute _cute_!" Richie teased, pinching Eddie's cheeks. He chuckled when the shorter boy punched at his chest (not aggressive enough to scare him or worse: hurt him) and the two of them continued laughing and bothering each other as they walked around the school to the bike racks, where their bikes were the only ones left and rested next to each other. They rolled them out and began walking to Eddie's house.

It was both of their instincts to get on their bikes and start riding when they heard a cry for help coming from the library.

The pair took off, barely sparing each other a second glance, knowing the other would follow. It didn't take long for them to find the source of the cries around the back of the building; a chubby boy shouted as Richie and Eddie's own group of terrorists shoved him around, punching him and hitting him and mocking his terror.

"Hey, Bowers, why don't you pick on someone your own size!" Richie yelled, snapping Eddie's attention back to him and making him nearly melt. Richie Tozier had to be the bravest yet stupidest boy he'd ever met.

Two of the four bullies started charging at them, and Eddie's attention was whipped back to reality. " _You're his fucking size_ , _tall-ass_!" he hissed. Patrick and Victor were the two who decided to take care of them, and Eddie immediately felt dread seep through his skin and bones. "Shit, Richie, _go_!"

Richie winked at Eddie before pedaling off the way they came, leaving with a sharp, "Pip-pip and tallyho, my good fellows!"

Eddie watched Patrick and Victor chase his best friend around to the front of the library and further. The imperiled idiot's stupidity would almost be endearing if it didn't result in them getting chased by Derry's local psychopaths.

He swallowed dryly upon realizing he'd been left alone with two of said psychopaths. More cold shudders wracked up his body at the thought. He didn't want to turn around, already knowing what he'd be faced with, but he could practically smell Belch Huggins' breath, and so he had to. He had to see his fate—it was brutal instinct, the need to know.

Slowly, Eddie turned his head, gripping his bike handles as he made eye contact with Belch from a few yards away. He wanted to die just at the sight.

A wicked grin split across Belch's chubby cheeks, not at all similar to Beverly's mischief. This was an angry, sadistic, predatory mischief that wasn't mischief at all; it was brutality, and Eddie was at the brunt of it. Belch stalked towards Eddie like a lion after an antelope. 

Eddie was paralyzed in place, but he could feel himself slowly sliding backwards with his bike. In a matter of moments, he was on the ground, the bike caught between his legs and his back on the cold, wet ground.

He tried to crawl backwards, tried to do anything to get away from Belch, but the bike held him in place.

The teenager that crept towards him was bigger and stronger than Eddie and it set him on the verge of tears. He just _knew_ he would die to the hands of this repulsive human, the sound of the other loser's cries his only lull as he floated into the oblivion. He _knew_ it.

He found himself wanting Richie. Richie was stronger than him, braver than him—Richie would stand a chance against Belch. Richie could protect him, or at least find a way for them to get out of there. They could run away together, away from Belch and Henry, Victor, and Patrick, and Eddie's mother, and school, and all of Derry. They could escape to a place more forgiving.

"Get the fuck _away from me_!" Eddie screamed, forcing himself backwards. The bike went with him for a moment before detaching from the tangle of limbs. He grabbed the handlebars and bashed the wheels into Belch's shins, keeping him from creeping any closer.

The vile teenager roared in pain, keened over for a moment to grip his legs, and then he shot up and kicked the bike in retaliation. It reeled back and the handles slammed into Eddie's head. He let out a small cry as his head rocked against the ground again.

He had screamed and shoved at Belch in the hopes that it might intimidate him for at least a little longer so he had time to get up and run; it was a small act of an even smaller grain of courage, but that valor was diminished as his ears started ringing and his throat began to close up. The world spun like the tires on his bike, and then he was lifted by the collar of his shirt and held against the wall of the library.

"You wanna do that shit again, faggot?" Belch yelled in Eddie's face. The smaller boy dry heaved at the smell alone. "Do you want to _fucking test me_?"

And suddenly, something snapped inside of Eddie. All he could think about was that Richie was in danger, and he needed Richie, and he had to get to Richie ( _RichieRichieRichierichierichie_ —)

" _Richie_!"

The following events passed in quick succession.

Belch released Eddie, which meant he had a chance to escape, but he had to hit the ground first. He grunted as he fell on his side, his legs folding under him at angle they definitely shouldn't bend, and opened his eyes to find a dark-skinned boy being pinned against the ground by Belch. When Eddie looked for Henry, he spotted him leaving behind the chubby boy in favor of probably killing Eddie's savior.

Eddie scrambled to his feet and booked it for his bike. He realized he could flee then; he could get on his bike and not have to face Henry or Belch until tomorrow at least. But he had to help this guy.

Eddie picked his bike up off the ground, hurtled over to the scuffle, and rammed it against Belch's ribs. It was enough to make the large teenager collapse to the side, and the other boy quickly climbed to his feet. Nodding at Eddie with a grateful grin, he turned around to meet the murderous glare of Henry Bowers from just feet away. "Fuck," Eddie whispered and remembered he was still on the verge of an asthma attack, which he had somehow managed to forget. He pulled his inhaler out of his pocket and shoved it in his mouth, shooting off on it and letting out a sigh of satisfaction seconds later.

"Henry, I don't want to cause no harm-" the boy began, lifting his hands in surrender. "Just let these boys go."

Henry sighed. "You know what, Hanlon? You really are a pain in my fucking ass." He pulled something out of his pocket. Whatever it was, it set Eddie's teeth on edge and goosebumps rose along his neck. He could _feel_ that they were in danger. Eddie backed away, glancing at Hanlon, who had tensed up, his eyes darting around for any escape. After a moment, he looked at Eddie and motioned to the chubby boy, who was still heaving against the library wall.

Eddie slowly stalked around Henry, waiting to see if he was even paying him any attention. When he came to the conclusion that he wasn't in the psychopath's radar, he dashed to the boy. "Are you okay? What happened? Can you talk? What did they do to you?"

"Yeah- I'm- I'm good, they cut me up a little-" he winced, and Eddie glanced down to find the boy's shirt covered in blood. He gagged, backing away slightly. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fucking fucker, _fuck_! You need to go to the ER or- or something, holy _fuck_ -" he stopped as he heard a scuffle in Henry and Hanlon's direction; Hanlon was once again pinned against the ground, this time with Henry's knife against his throat. "What the fuck!" he cried. "Get the fuck off of him you _psychopath_!" Eddie just knew he was about to watch someone get murdered right in front of him, just like he just knew he himself was going to be killed (he hadn't been, but that wasn't important).

He was contemplating his chances of survival if he were to surprise Henry from behind when someone else did it for him. "Henry! You're gonna kill him!" Victor Criss yelled from behind Eddie, making him bristle in terror and shuffle backwards until he was flush against the library's wall, his eyes flashing between the two groups of people; on one end, Victor and Patrick stood with a beaten Richie between them; on the other, Henry was only moments away from slitting Hanlon's throat, with Belch a few feet away and watching with amusement.

" _Shut the fuck up!_ " Henry screamed. "Shut up! Shut _up_..."

The six spectators watched as Henry snarled down at Hanlon for dozens of seconds longer, then stood up slowly, and clicked the switchblade down. He towered over Hanlon, a very looming threat that could and probably would strike at any moment, and then turned away and strode away from the scene, as if he didn't nearly kill two people. Victor and Patrick dropped Richie, and Belch stumbled to his feet, jogging after them. The two groups split apart soundlessly, save for rushed footsteps and heavy breaths.

Eddie immediately crawled over to Richie, grabbing at his cheeks and tugging him off the ground to study him. "What did they _do_ to you?"

"Nothing they haven't before. What happened to this guy?" Richie inquired, nodding at the chubby boy with concerned eyes.

"Henry happened. Just fucking... stay with him for a minute." Eddie stood up, jogging to Hanlon. "Hey, hey, hey, are you alright?"

He nodded, sitting up. "I'm good. Are you?"

Eddie nodded and offered a hand. Hanlon allowed him to believe he was being helpful (even though he wasn't pulling nearly hard enough to actually get him up). "You're strong, do you think you could help us carry him to the drug store?" he asked, motioning to the mauled boy who was now laughing to some of Richie's jokes.

Hanlon frowned. "Yeah, is he okay?"

Eddie shrugged. "Henry cut him up really bad—it's disgusting, he's gonna have like- fucking _AIDS_ or something." He shivered at the concept.

The two of them hurried to the others so Eddie could explain his thought process. "Richie, Hanlon, you're stronger than me, you two carry him to the drug store downtown. I'll find a payphone and call Bill and Stan to see if they can come help us, I've only got enough change for that."

They didn't have a better plan, so Richie and Hanlon nodded and lifted him up, carrying him to what must have been Hanlon's bike. They helped him on, and before they left, Hanlon stopped and informed Eddie with all the politeness he had, "You can call me Mike. That's my name—Mike Hanlon."

Eddie's cheeks flushed. "Oh- alright."

"And- and I'm Ben," the boy Henry had cut up pitched in, his cheeks matching Eddie's and his hands fumbling with the hem of his sweater. "In case you were wondering or anything."

"Hey, Eds!" Richie called, and Eddie turned away from the pair to look at his best friend. "Can I take your bike? I left mine somewhere downtown."

"Uh, yeah, just be careful, okay? It's already scratched up enough and I don't need your dumbass putting a dent in it like the fucking pavement."

"Aye aye, Cap'n!" Richie responded as he gave chase after Mike on Eddie's bike.

Eddie began walking downtown, first stopping at a payphone and calling Bill and Stan.

"Denbrough residence, Zack Denbrough speaking," Bill's father's voice came through the phone.

"Hello, sir, it's Eddie, Eddie Kaspbrak. Can I talk to Bill?" he asked, trying his best to be polite.

"Oh, of course, kid." There was silence on the line for a few moments before he heard Bill's voice.

"H-hey Eddie. What's up?"

"There's this kid named Ben, he got in a fight with Henry or something, but Henry cut him up real bad, it's fucking disgusting- can you get some money or something and meet us by the drug store? He looks like someone killed him- someone _did_ try to- _look_ , just, can you? Come?"

"Yeah, I'll b-b-be there in teh-t-ten."

Next was Stan. It was a quick conversation considering he was the first to pick up the phone, but he agreed to bring what he could find and meet them as soon as he was able to.

Afterwards, Eddie began looking around for Richie's bike. He spent probably five minutes or so searching until he found it next to the Paul Bunyan statue. With one look up at the statue, he was picking Richie's bike up off the ground, mounting it as fast as he could, and pedaling away despite the challenge due to how much smaller he was compared to Richie.

Eddie was selfless a dozen minutes before when he'd offered to help Ben, but on the ride to the drug store, he couldn't help thinking about all the diseases he could get from it. He could have all kinds of infections or something and he wouldn't know it until he was sat over the toilet bowl vomiting his guts out or in the ER getting surgery done. His mom would kill him if he wasn't already dead.

Despite his nerves, he turned into the alleyway next to the drug store and smiled at Richie. His face fell, however, as his eyes landed on Ben, who was still bleeding. "Shit, sorry I took so long." He climbed off the bike, glancing at Richie once more before sheepishly realizing Stan, Bill, and Mike were all with them, too.

"R-Ri-Richie, Mike, you g-guys s-ss-stay- stay out here. C-c-come on," Bill instructed, and he, Eddie, and Stan jogged into the store. Eddie was quick to start picking up things left and right that could help—soon enough, he had his arms full.

"Can we afford all of that?" Stan asked. He and Bill began pulling out the money they'd brought: only a few dollars.

Eddie, exasperated, sighed, "shit."

"Are you okay?" Bill questioned, his voice sounding like the breath had been knocked out of him, and Eddie looked up at him with confusion to find Bill staring at the doorway.

He followed Bill's stare to find Beverly blinking between the three of them, an almost guilty expression on her face. Eddie went to wave and nearly dropped everything.

"What's wrong with you?" she retorted.

"None of your business," Stan retaliated.

"There's a kid outside," Eddie explained, ignoring his friend's harsh remark. "He looks like someone killed him."

She nodded with pursed lips. "You guys get out of here, I'll distract Mr. Keene."

They watched as she approached the counter, talking with the pharmacist, Mr. Keene. She tried on his glasses and knocked over a case of packs of cigarettes, and when the pharmacist crouched behind the counter to pick them up, she turned around and signaled for them to go. The three of them took off, Bill accidentally shoving Eddie into the shelf they were looking at before. He dropped some of what he held, but they hurried out the door and down the alley nonetheless.

Eddie knelt down in front of Ben, digging through the supplies they'd stolen.

"Just suck the wound," Richie offered.

Eddie scoffed. "I need to focus right now."

"You need to focus?" repeated Richie, and Eddie hated that he didn't mind the teasing all that much.

He turned to Ben, making him hold up his own shirt as he pressed a cotton wipe against the 'H' messily carved into his flesh. "Yeah, can you go get me something? Jesus..." he muttered as he realized just how much blood there was. He wanted to puke.

"Oh, what do you need?" Richie was actually being helpful for once. _Inspiring_.

"Go get my bifocals, I hid them in my second fanny pack."

"Why do you have two fanny packs?" Stan queried.

Eddie huffed. "Well I need to focus right now, _and_ it's a long story."

He continued patching Ben up as Richie and Stan outwardly freaked out about the blood. It disgusted Eddie just as much, if not more, but at least he had the decency to not say anything about it; Ben was probably in enough pain as it was and he was doing brilliantly to not complain, they could at least spare him the headache.

Soon enough, he figured he'd applied enough medicine to that portion of the wounds and began bandaging the cuts before Richie so gracefully butt in with, "You have to suck the wound before you apply the bandage, this is 101!"

"You don't- you don't know what you're talking about," he rightfully accused, backing away as Ben yanked his shirt back down over the bandage.

"Are you okay? That... looks like it hurts," Beverly asked, making all of their heads turn. Eddie hadn't noticed Bill walk away, but he was now following Beverly back to the group, and now that he thought about it, he realized Mike was gone, as well.

"Oh, no I'm good, I just... fell," Ben lied.

"Yeah, right into _Henry Bowers_ ," Richie negated.

Bill glared at the bespectacled teenager. "Shut it, R-R-Richie."

"Why? It's the _truth_!"

There was a moment of silence in which they all avoided each other's gaze, except for Richie and Eddie. Everyone else could vouch that the two hardly ever strayed from each other, even in their less-than-bright moments. They were always either joking under their breath or screaming at each other, and there was hardly an in-between. That included awkward moments between their sort-of-friends.

"You sure they got the... _right stuff_ to fix you up?" Beverly inquired, and Eddie was almost offended, but he was predominantly disgusted as he watched Bill get frustrated and Ben beam bashfully. He would never understand those three, he predicted.

"You know, uh, w-w-ww-we'll take care of him. Thanks again, Beverly."

The two of them smiled at each other for a moment, their cheeks bright. "Sure. Maybe I'll see you around."

"Yeah, w-we were thinking about going to the q-q-qu-quarry tomorrow, if... if you wanna... come..."

The four onlookers each looked at him with shocked expressions. Not only did they realize what he was trying to do (trying to _see_ , Richie's internal monologue of dirty jokes and angst figured), but absolutely none of them had mentioned anything about the quarry. Eddie looked up at Richie, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. Richie, grinning, wiggled his eyebrows and bit his lip.

"Good to know," she responded, and there was a bit of hesitance, but also a bit of want in the softness of her voice. Eddie recognized that in Stan's eyes when he looked at Bill, and he felt it when he looked at Richie, but he wasn't sure why she would feel it about Bill—what was holding _her_ back? "Thanks." Beverly then walked away, waving at Bill and Ben, and Eddie could have puked in his mouth at the cheesy sight. As soon as she turned away, he stood up, dusting off his hands.

"Nice going, bringing up _Bowers_ in front of her," Stan scolded Richie.

"Yeah, dude, you know what she did," Eddie added. He actually didn't believe the rumors, but according to Sonia, Beverly got around. He honestly just wanted to pick a fight with Richie or hear one of his jokes.

Ben eyed them, following the conversation with confusion. "What did she do?"

"More like _who'd_ she do," _there it was_ , "from what I hear, the list is longer than my _wang_ ," he made a crude gesture and smirked at Eddie, who shook his head to hide his grin.

Stan rolled his eyes. "That's not saying much."

"They're j-j-just rumors," Bill defended.

"Anyway," Richie continued "informing" Ben, "Bill had her back in third grade. They kissed in the school play! The reviews said you can't that sort of passion!" Eddie watched Stan wink at Bill, who gave a side-smirk and looked away. Richie then clapped, exclaiming, "Now, pip-pip and tallyho, my good fellows!" He leaned on Eddie, making the shorter boy fold his arms and glare at Richie in his peripheral vision. "I do believe this chap requires our utmost attention! Get in there, Dr. K! Come on, fix him up!"

Eddie scoffed, sliding from Richie's embrace and crouching back down in front of Ben. "Why don't you shut the fuck up, _Einstein_ , because I know what I'm doing and I don't want you doing the British guy with me right now."

"Suck the wound! _Get in there_!"

▼

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if I don't update next week! If I can't, I'll be sure to update with all the chapters I couldn't get to when I get back. Thank you for your support! *awkward finger guns*


	4. In Which Henry Bowers Fucks Everything Up

▼

 **Ben, Stanley, Bill, Eddie, and Richie** all sat upon a rock ledge overlooking the frozen quarry lake—Bill had _actually_ made them all come in the hopes they would see Beverly. In Eddie and Stan's opinion, it wasn't right to think about her like that. Ben and Bill kept quiet, while Richie joked to Eddie about how much the two "definitely had a hard on for her." Eddie thumped the crude boy on the arm every time.

Bill hadn't exactly realized that it was the middle of winter when he invited Beverly and the rest of them to the quarry, of all places, and when the gaggle of teenage boys arrived, they found the water to be completely iced over.

Richie made a joke about dropping himself into the ice and placing bets on what would kill him first—the impact, the shards of ice, or the gelid water below—and how fast he would die once he did. Stan pitched in with all his callous spite that he had a stopwatch at home if Richie wanted him to go get it. Eddie told them off, glancing between them as if he knew they would do just that if he didn't intervene.

They didn't have much to do since they couldn't go swimming. Ben suggested they play hide and seek, but they all turned that down, saying they were getting too old for that (Richie didn't turn it down originally, but it didn't take him or Ben long to realize they were outnumbered).

Instead, the five boys did their own things. Richie turned on the radio he'd brought and drummed against Eddie's thigh to the songs he knew, or mimed a guitar even though Eddie was fairly certain he didn't know how to play one, or even sang at the top of his lungs until Stanley told him to shut up because he was scaring off the birds Stan had taken to watching. Bill sketched on a pad he almost always had stashed in the pocket of the particular jacket he'd chosen for the day. Meanwhile, Ben and Eddie mumbled to each other about whatever came to mind.

Eventually, Richie joined in on their conversation, and Bill started pitching in whenever something sparked his interest. Soon enough, Stanley had started muttering his responses and opinions, until eventually they were all holding a conversation while the radio sang in the middle, turned down to Stan's liking.

And, because they were teenagers and Richie was involved, it didn't take long for a game of truth or dare to start up.

"Tr-tru-uth," Bill chose in response to Richie's inquired "truth or dare." A malicious grin curled at the edges of Richie's lips, and Eddie felt the dread of someone all too used to the boy's shenanigans flutter through his belly.

Richie pretended to have to think of a question to ask, even throwing in an exaggerated hum and a delighted "oh!" before he finally spat out his question. "How many times does Billy Boy jack off to Beverly, hmm? My guess is thrice a night! Ten dollars on thrice a night, chaps!"

Red-hot anger itched its way up Bill's neck until it exploded across his cheeks and caught fire in his ears. His face convulsed as if it wanted to curl into an animalistic snarl. Nostrils flared and eye twitching, he stood up and stalked towards Richie, whose amused grin and leisurely posture faltered once he realized Bill was pissed.

"It- it was just a joke, man," Richie mumbled, sitting up straight and keeping his eyes focused on Bill's movements. Suddenly, the bruises on Richie's face and arms stood out a lot more to Eddie.

"Bill, don't. You know he didn't mean it," Eddie warned and shifted closer to Richie until he was sat between him and Bill.

Stanley was by Bill's side before any of them even saw him move. "Bill, as much as I wouldn't mind seeing Richie's glasses get broken against his face, I don't want to see _you_ doing it. Back off. He's not worth it and you know it. Henry Bowers deserves it."

Bill hesitated, even looking at Stan rather than Richie. Eddie saw some of the furious scarlet on his skin water down into something more calm as Stanley talked him down from his uncharacteristically blind rage. 

"Richie went too far, but he's Richie. He's a dumbass, and he doesn't seem to realize when he's gone too far until someone punches him in the throat, but I think you managed to put the fear of God in him, yeah? He's finally shut up, so you don't have to beat it out of him for once. C'mon, sit down."

Stan coaxed Bill down to the ground, not forgetting to throw Richie a glare over his shoulder as he did. 

Eddie turned to Richie once he was sure Stanley could keep Bill from turning Richie's face into a purple pancake against the dirt. "Did you honestly think that was a good idea?" he asked.

Richie huffed, slouching the way a child does after getting scolded by their mother. "Well, not exactly a _good_ idea, but it was an idea."

Eddie shoved Richie's chest as hard as he could without having the teenager get jumpy around him the way he was when they met. "If this country followed through with every idea the president had, we'd be nose-deep in triple the debt we're already in and twice as many wars as we've been in in the past."

"I never said I'd make a good president!" Richie defended. "Just a very good comedian."

"Not that you aren't funny sometimes, but I don't hear anyone laughing right now, Rich," Eddie pointed out.

Richie whined and dropped his head against Eddie's shoulder. "I know, I'm an idiot."

Eddie patted his back a few times in a futile attempt to console him. "If it makes you feel any better, Bill thought your 'joke' was good enough reason to try to strangle you, so..."

"Thanks," Richie snorted, sitting up and smiling half-heartedly. He pulled his radio closer to him and Eddie and changed the station off rock and roll to pop, hoping it was more up Eddie's alley. Eddie beamed when the station was just a few seconds into _Take on Me_ by a-ha. He hummed along to the words while Richie fidgeted with a string on his sweater.

Mid-way through a different song, Beverly made her grand entrance.

Tears were streaming down her puffy, red cheeks when she slowly stepped into view. Her hands were wrapped around her neck to warm them up. She stared at the ground, sniffling lightly as she approached them. When Richie turned the volume down on the radio, she looked up. Upon seeing them all watching her with worry written across their faces, she started sobbing. Her hands unlatched from her neck to cover her face.

Stanley was the first to step forward, snaking between the Losers to get to Beverly. He made his movements deliberate as he pulled her into a warm, comforting hug and allowed her to sob into his shoulder. Bill fit in next to him, and Ben followed suit. Richie and Eddie didn't even spare a glance at each other before they were rushing to Beverly's side and latching onto her, too. The six of them stood wrapped around each other for a long while until Beverly, in her exhaustion, crumpled to the ground. The other five Losers sat with her, keeping close to Beverly in a sort of comforting, defensive half-circle. There was the occasional whisper of consolation to Beverly, but otherwise a comfortable quiet wrapped around the group until she stopped crying.

The silence afterwards was broken when Beverly chuckled, "Fuck, my eyes hurt."

There were few giggles throughout the group, but Ben was the one to cut to the chase. "What happened, Bev?"

Beverly took a shuddering breath, her eyes closed tight, almost like if she couldn't see the monster in the corner, it would stop existing. She opened her eyes like the monster stalked beneath her eyelids, too. "Henry Bowers," she hissed, and started shaking the way Richie sometimes did. "He cat-called me and- and he _touched_ me," she mumbled, her voice brittle. She didn't elaborate, but she didn't have to; they knew all they needed to to have their blood boiling.

"W-w-where- where i-i-is that fuh-fucker?" Bill inquired testily. "I'm g-g-gonna p-punch his face i-in."

Each and every one of them were ready to fight for Beverly, and so they would. This was each of their breaking points; they were going to go seek out a fight.

Eddie made eye contact with Richie. The two best friends shared a _look_ ; they knew _something_ was about to happen, and they knew they would have to look out for each other, more so than they usually did.

"Down by the gravel pit," she answered, wiping her snot on her sleeve.

Eddie winced and glared at Richie, because she probably picked that up from his awful habits. "That's fucking disgusting," he complained.

"You know what _else_ is disgusting?" Richie asked, nodding his head at Beverly and Bill, who were now clinging to each other.

Eddie only saw Richie's hair as it bounced. He found himself wondering what it would be like to just run his hands through it, tug and pull it or braid twist it, for hours. Then, his eyes were drawn back to the taller boy's face, and his lips quirked upwards slightly. "What, your hair?"

Richie gasped, his hand whipping up to touch his " _luscious locks_ ". "I am _offended_ , Edward!"

To hide his grin, Eddie turned away and eyed the other Losers. "Pardon me, _Tozier_." His cheeks began to ache from all the smiling he had been doing; he was bound to overdose on dopamine and ecstasy if he spent much more time around Richie.

"L-let's go," Bill commanded, pulling Eddie and Richie's attention away from each other. The group climbed onto their bicycles (Beverly and Bill rode double on Bill's) and began cycling through the woods.

There was a fiery passion radiating through the group, a certain passion that you could only experience with a group of people all feeling the same rage or misery or euphoria; they were a family of pissed teenagers with a sister to defend, and they were prepared to do so with their lives.

Eddie's eyes trailed to Richie even though he knew he should be paying attention to his surroundings. The teenage boy swerved between bushes and trees next to Eddie, and despite them heading to their ultimate demise, a liberated grin brightened Richie's features and made Eddie lose his breath in the best way possible.

His eyes darted away, however, as Richie turned to eyeball him. He bit his lip with furrowed brows and tried to refocus back to the ground in front of him.

Did Richie catch him staring?

Was _Richie_ staring?

When he came to the conclusion that Richie's eyes _were_ still on him, he had to bite down harder to keep himself from looking back over.

He was hopeless.

Before they even got to the dump, the Losers-minus-one were faced with the Bowers-gang-plus-two (and a hostage). In fact, in a different world with even more terrors than just Henry Bowers, they would have found themselves at the dam Ben would have built on the Kenduskeag stream.

"M-Mmmi-Mike!" Bill shouted.

Henry had Mike pinned against a tree. A knife was stabbed into the tree next to the Loser's head. His lip was busted and his nose was probably broken. His eye looked swollen. He was gasping for breath and looked like hell, but when he spotted his friends, he _smiled_.

Both groups of teenagers were on edge, staring each other down. It was when Henry's eyes found Beverly the way a pedophile picks a child from a crowd, or a psychopath picks out their next victim, that the _something_ Eddie and Richie had worried about began.

A smirk cracked across Henry's face. "You losers are trying too hard. She'll do you," said Henry. Eddie could just about strangle the son of a bitch. "You just have to ask nicely. Like I did."

Richie bristled next to Eddie. He was sure he looked just as infuriated.

The sound of a bike dropping to the ground startled them out of their anger. Eddie peered around to spot Ben, looking hellbent on rearranging Henry's face with his fists. There was an eerie quiet where Ben glared daggers into Henry's soul, and then he let out an enraged roar and charged at Henry. They were on the ground in seconds, and Henry didn't have the advantage.

The two groups split apart from there; Bill raced after Victor; Stan followed suit to beat up the weaker of the unknown pair; Mike hurried to Richie, Eddie, and Beverly's side. The four were left to fend for themselves against Belch, Patrick, and the other kid.

Eddie glanced between his friends. He wasn't keen on getting his teeth knocked in if they decided to split up, too.

Belch made the decisions for them. "I didn't finish with you last time, flamer," he snarled. It took Eddie a second to realize it was directed at him. His face twisted from worry for the majority to wrath directed at one.

Despite every ounce of courage in him at the forefront of his mind, it hurt to breathe, and he could see his gasps puffing in clouds in front of him.

His back hit a tree suddenly—he hadn't even realized he was backing away.

His valor was drained out of him until he felt like a rabbit trapped in a cage with a snake or a wolf. He wouldn't have been surprised if Belch started growling or hissing.

"Hey, shithead! _Hello_ , pissbreath? I know you hear me, dumbass, back the _fuck_ up!"

Eddie let out a sigh of relief as Belch turned to stare Richie down. Relief was only temporary for Eddie, though, because _Belch Huggins_ (a gargantuan fucking asshole who probably bench-presses toddlers after fine dining at McDonalds) was looking at Richie _goddamn fucking amazing_ Tozier as if he was the epitome of everything terrible in the world, but also like he was breakable. Fragile. _Vulnerable_. Something he wanted to, and could easily get rid of.

Eddie had to do something.

Naturally, he kicked Belch right in the ass. His foot was caught for a moment until Belch keened forward, yowling in agony.

Eddie took the opportunity to get to Richie. He gripped his best friend's arm to make sure he was still standing, only to be enveloped in the arms of the boy who felt like Eddie's safe haven; Richie was Eddie's refuge, but he knew the enemy would tear apart his hiding spot eventually.

"We should get out of here," Eddie told Richie without moving from his place.

Richie rubbed his fingertips up and down Eddie's shoulder. Eddie pressed his head that much further into Richie's chest and breathed him in. "We can't, Eds," he said.

Eddie sighed and fisted Richie's shirt. "I know."

Richie gently pried Eddie off him. "C'mon, we've gotta-"

And then Richie was on the ground and Eddie was being dragged back by the collar of his shirt.

"I'll teach these fuckin' faggots a lesson," Henry snarled in Eddie's ear

(oh god oh god oh god why him why why why—)

before dropping him against a tree.

Teardrops hit his cheeks. He only had a moment to think about how he didn't feel the prick in his eyes. Then Henry was kicking him senseless.

Eddie rolled away, crying out. Someone else kicked him in the head. His ears rang. His eyes closed. His lungs compressed. With the consciousness he had left, he reached for his inhaler. He shook it weakly, but it was swiped from him before he could use it. His throat itched and ached.

"Won't be needing that," Belch snickered.

Eddie curled in on himself. Each impact tortured him even more than the last. It was a sharp, throbbing pain and then numbness. Rinse and repeat.

"Stop," he cried, his voice broken and whistling. " _Please stop_."

"Get off of him!" Richie screamed from somewhere far away.

Eddie almost reached out for him, but his shoulder wouldn't move.

Everything hurt.

"Get the fuck off of him!"

"'Chee," he breathed.

"What was that, Wheezy? You want your faggot boyfriend? Here, have him."

Eddie heard something get thrown down next to him.

"Eddie.."

Richie.

Eddie blinked slowly only to close them again when Henry's combat boots made friends with his ribs. He whimpered.

He heard Richie being beaten next to him, too, and that hurt him just as much.

"Shit!" Henry shouted. The kicking stopped.

Eddie peeled his eyes open warily. He blinked away the tears and winced as he looked around. Mike had punched Henry hard enough to knock him to the ground. Bill and Stanley were running over to them. He looked to the other side to find Richie trying and failing to sit up and crawl to his side.

As he reached for Richie, a bolt of pain shot through his arm. He hissed. His fingertips brushed over his best friend's elbow. He smiled when the bespectacled boy looked over. "Hey." His breath whistled, but Richie understood anyway.

"We're okay," Richie whispered and held Eddie's hand.

They lay there for a moment.

That moment was concluded with a deafening, bone-chilling _crack!_ and an inflaming agony swelling in Eddie's arm.

He screamed louder than he thought he ever had before.

Then, he vomited. All over himself.

Everything burned. Eddie's insides stung with acidic pain. It spread from his throat to his nose, from his arm and the bruises beaten into his stomach all over his body.

When he was done getting sick, his world began fading and spinning and all he could think about was the throbbing in his side and the acidic burn in his nose and throat and his _arm_ , his fucking _arm_ felt like it was frozen in the hottest pits of hell.

The sickly sweet smell of puke and snot made him want to recoil in fear of getting sick, but he was too exhausted, and with the thump of his head hitting the ground, he was out cold.

▼

As soon as he heard the earsplitting scream, Richie was at Eddie's side. He had to get to be with Eddie and protect _Eddie_. He needed Eddie to be okay—laughing and smiling and arguing and scoffing and being _Eddie_ —because Eddie made him feel the way they sang about in songs and wrote about in books and painted pictures of and filmed movies of. Eddie made him feel _okay_ , more than okay, and he needed that.

All he could feel was hot, hate-filled rage, and the unquenchable desire to break every bone in Henry Bower's body.

His first instinct was to punch Henry as hard as he could.

Richie always was the type to act on instinct.

He stumbled to his feet and glared around.

Henry was slinking away with Victor Criss on his tail.

Richie took one step, then another, and then he was sprinting after Henry. The pain didn't even matter anymore. He was fueled by hatred. He caught up fast enough. 

A moment later, Henry was on the ground beneath him. Victor kept running.

Richie only felt a fraction of satisfaction at the sound of Henry's nose breaking when he hit him. It wasn't _enough_. It didn't even compare to what Henry had done to Eddie. In fact, he wasn't sure if anything would be enough to make up for the blood-curdling scream that had come from Eddie.

Richie dropped to his knees and socked Henry right across the face. Blood slicked his knuckles. He hit harder. Henry's lip mashed against his teeth under Richie's fist. He hit him again. He beat Henry until he was dragged away.

He fought for Eddie.

He would fight for Eddie to the end of the world.

Eddie Kaspbrak was his first real friend, he was his best friend, and he was in pain because of the motherfucker on the ground in front of him.

"How fucking _dare_ you!" he screamed. His throat scratched, and it reminded him that Eddie was having a fucking _asthma attack_ and puking because of the fucker laying _right there_ , right in front of him, practically begging to be ripped to shreds.

He struggled against the person's arms. He wanted to make sure Henry couldn't see the sack of shit in the mirror for the next month.

"How _dare_ you touch him, you son of a _bitch_! I'm gonna fucking _kill_ you!" He spat at Henry. The insane boy crawled away before getting up and running.

Then, Richie was let go. He didn't try going after Henry, because all he could think about now was Eddie.

 _Eddie_. God, _Eddie_.

He skidded down the hill and stumbled to Eddie's side. The tiny, beaten hypochondriac had drying vomit around his lips that mixed with blood and tears, and his expression was twisted from trauma even while unconscious.

Richie let out a weak cry and collapsed. Excruciatingly, he crawled to Eddie's side and grabbed his hand, noticing just how bad the break was.

He pushed his glasses up with his shoulder as they slipped from the tears tracking down the bridge of his nose.

Things slowed down as he watched the final tears slip down Eddie's bruised cheeks, but with a pat on his shoulder—from the person who had kept him from most likely killing Henry Bowers—everything sped up far too rapidly.

"I'm gonna snap it back," he told whoever was listening.

He grabbed Eddie's arm, hands on either side of the break, and with a rough _snap_ Eddie's arm was back in place.

The teenager lurched forward, a harsh awakening from his unconscious state, and immediately started projectile vomiting.

Richie winced and rubbed the boy's back. "Shhh, it's okay. Get it out. You're okay."

Once he was done, Eddie curled in on himself and cried. His voice was wheezy and hoarse when he spoke. "Fucking fuck, _god_ that _hurts_!"

On instinct, Richie's hands moved to cup Eddie's face and turn him towards himself. "Eddie, _Eds_ , you're okay, I've got you, shh, you're gonna be alright," he soothed and, without turning from Eddie, called, "Haystack!"

All of the Losers were already with them.

Richie yanked his shirt over his head. "You know how to make a sling?" he asked.

Ben nodded, sitting next to Richie. "Try to keep him still."

Eddie's face was twisted in a sob as the waterworks kept rolling, and it hurt Richie to watch, but he couldn't tear his eyes away. Instead, he brushed away the tears.

"Eddie? Hey, look at me, Spaghetti Man," he breathed. "I know it hurts, but we're gonna get you help."

Ben lifted Eddie's arm as gingerly as he could, and Richie's eyes welled up again as Eddie let out a whimper. "Hush, it's too early to be making sounds like that," he attempted, but no one could really laugh with the sound of Eddie's pain

(and the smell of Eddie's vomit and the sight of Eddie's broken arm and Eddie's broken face and oh god he was going to fucking die and it would be Richie's fault he shouldve been there to protect eddie eddie deserved better why is richie so fucking useless he shouldve been there to do one good thing in his garbage fucking life—)

filling the air. Eddie's chest heaved rapidly and he grimaced at the pain branching from his lungs. _Eddie_ was in pain and Richie couldn't help him.

He couldn't _save_ him.

"Hey, just look at me, Eddie Spaghetti. Look at me." He gave a weak smile when Eddie's eyes met his. " _Breathe_."

That was all it took for Eddie to keep their eyes locked and begin taking deeper, calmer breaths, and Richie breathed with him.

They breathed together, and every time Eddie's gasping hitched and his eyes watered because Ben moved his arm too fast or held it wrong, Richie rubbed the pad of his thumbs over the pitiful boy's cheeks and smiled a toothy smile that was goofy enough to make Eddie's eyes crinkle in the corners as his lips upturned from their grimace.

Eddie's smile made the entire situation seem less dire, and Richie wasn't as afraid that Eddie was going to die.

"You're so strong, Eds," Richie whispered. Only Ben and Eddie could hear him. "So strong, you know? You've got so much energy even with all the pills your mom has you on, and every time Henry comes after you, you make it out with a few scrapes and scratches. And that's all they are, right? Just a scratch. You'll be alright. You're strong."

Eddie leaned against Richie's shoulder and closed his eyes. "Tha-hank- thank y-you," he mumbled, his voice shaky from crying.

Richie nodded and carded his hands through Eddie's hair. "'Course, Eds."

Soon enough, Ben was done wrapping Eddie's arm in the shirt. Richie offered one last smile to Eddie before standing up and turning on Bill.

"Why the _fuck_ didn't you help him?" he barked, bringing an accusatory finger up to push at Bill's chest. "You were _right_ there and you just _watched_ , you fucking _asshole_!"

"R-R-Richie I-I-"

" _No_ , Bill! You did _nothing_ and now Eddie has a broken fucking arm! You got him _hurt_!" The tears were free falling by that point, each one of them filled with fury for Eddie.

"Richie, Bill was hurt too-" Beverly commented.

"Oh of course _you'll_ stand up for him! You never stop fawning over him, it's honestly embarrassing. I didn't see you doing anything to help, either!"

"I was caught up with Victor. If you would shut up long enough to listen, he sprained Bill's ankle!"

"Guys-" Mike put in as a failed attempt to calm the chaos; he was drowned out by Richie.

"You were definitely caught up with _someone_!" he snapped, causing Ben, Bill, Beverly, and even Stan to flinch.

"Richie-" Stan put in.

"F-ffff-fffuh-fuh-fuh-huck- fuck yy-y-you!" Bill fumed, shoving Richie by the chest.

"No thanks, looks like Bev's already got that, check and fucking _check_!"

Bill swung his fist, and he swung _hard_ ; Richie staggered backwards, his eyes filling with tears from the blow to his nose.

"You _fucker_! You're just a fucking _loser_!" he yelled through tears. He went to punch back, but he was being pulled back—probably by Stan and Mike.

"S-ss-so- so are y-y-you!"

"Guys!" Mike shouted. "Please, it's no one's fault except Henry's. He's the one that broke Eddie's arm."

Richie's blood boiled at the very name of Bowers. "Yeah, and I fucking kicked his ass for it—he deserved _worse_! And if Bill would've been a leader when we _actually_ needed him to be, Eddie wouldn't be in this situation; this shit could've been prevented if Bill would stop being so fucking inconvenient!"

"Richie's right, surprisingly," said Stanley. "At least, to some extent. We all could've done something different, but it's not completely Bill's fault, Richie."

Richie scoffed, rolling his eyes, but he went rigid when he saw the look on Eddie's face—he was staring at his arm with a dozy sort of guilt, like he was so wrapped up in all the blame being thrown around he'd started pinning it on himself.

While the others continued bickering, Richie sank to his knees in front of Eddie. Eddie looked up at him and shook his head dismissively, and Richie finally realized he had a home. Wherever these losers were was home for him, and he'd gone and fucked it up.

All of his last sparks of hope for something better to do with his life were extinguished; this fight was going to split the Losers apart just about as swiftly as Henry's boots to Eddie's bones.

"Why are you being this way, Richie?" Eddie lamented, then paused as if that question had sparked dozens more. With a labored sigh, he squeezed his eyes shut and let his head fall forward. Even more tears dripped from his eyelashes his nose.

"Henry nearly fucking raped me!"

Richie shuddered at the words that left Beverly's mouth, the hair on the back of his neck bristling from shock. Richie was going to kill Henry for what he did to Beverly _and_ to Eddie.

"No no no, Eds, Eddie Spaghetti, Kaspbrak the Hypochondriac, it's okay. This- _this_ is okay. Everything is going to be okay. It was just a fight and something bad happened and- and _we'll get over it_."

It sounded like a question—he couldn't reassure Eddie if he wasn't really sure, and if anything, _he_ needed the reassurance. He couldn't lose his friends, the only people that really cared about him, the biggest group of fucking losers he'd ever met. Although he would never admit it out loud, he needed them, and although they never said it, they needed him.

"And now you guys are saying the fight wasn't fucking worth it?" Beverly exasperated. Richie wanted to curl in on himself, but he knew he deserved to feel this guilty and hurt.

Eddie winced. " _This_? This is not fucking okay. We're tearing ourselves apart over this and- and- and it's because of my arm, my fucking _arm_ , why is my arm such a big deal, _god_ why does it hurt so much, it's going to get infected, my mom- my mom's gonna _kill_ me, Richie! Sh-she's- she's gonna make me fucking _overdose_ because of how much sh-shit she's gonna pump into- into me, I can't- I can't do this, _fuck_!"

"O-of- of c-c-course i-i-i-it- it was worth it, B-B-Bev."

Richie's eyes were puffy and red and he felt completely drained, but teardrops still managed to wet his Hawaiian button-up's collar and his coke bottle glasses and the messy strands of hair that fanned around his face. "Eddie- Eddie you're going to- to..." he trailed off, closed his eyes, and breathed. "Guys! _Guys_ , c'mon, shut the fuck up for a second!"

Everyone was silenced by yet another outburst from Richie Tozier.

"We've got to get him to the hospital or- or something!"

That was one thing they all could agree with. They clambered onto their bikes as Richie rushed them. Eddie rode in the basket on Mike's bike—Richie made sure to keep close to Mike and Eddie the entire way to the Kaspbrak residence, although he also had to lead the group.

No one questioned how he knew the way.

▼

"Haystack, you're the only one of us who can actually communicate with people, let alone with adults, let alone with Eddie's _mom_ ," Richie decreed. "Go knock on the door and explain what happened. Be... _gentle_ about it, Prince Charming." He batted his eyelashes. It was almost in perfect sync with his racing heartbeat.

He was letting Eddie lean against him (his best friend was probably dehydrated from all the puking and crying he did. Not that Richie wouldn't let Eddie lean on him if he _wasn't_ half-dead). Richie figured they should've made the consecutive decision to come here as soon as Bowers and his gang were gone, so Eddie would be less exhausted, but that didn't happen (because of him).

Richie rubbed Eddie's shoulder soothingly. The duo were stood behind the rest of the Losers, watching Ben and Sonia's interaction from afar. They all saw the moment Sonia was informed of Eddie's broken arm (the crazy woman nearly started howling through her tears), but Richie was the only one to feel Eddie's goosebumps and Eddie's sudden stiffness and Eddie's discreet shuffling to hide himself behind Richie.

Richie figured he would let Eddie hide behind him for forever if it meant the boy never had to face his overbearing mother, and her pills and her lies, again.

Of course, that wasn't how things worked, and soon enough Eddie's mother took notice of the gaggle of teenagers stood in her front yard. By extension, she zeroed in on the son she'd manipulated all his life, who now cowered behind a boy with glasses bigger than his face.

She took a breath—

( _Eddie couldn't breathe he felt like he was dying someone help him he's_ drowning—)

and cried, " _Eddiiiieeee_!"

▼


	5. Fuck Sonia Kaspbrak (An Essay)

▼

 **Richie was the first** to spot Sonia Kaspbrak's car pulling down the road.

He leaped from the brick steps leading up to the porch and watched the vehicle veer into the driveway; he could see Eddie's figure in the passenger seat, and it made his heart ache.

Sonia threw the car door open, glaring daggers into Richie with steam jetting out of her ears, and careened around the front of the car to Eddie's side. As soon as the door was open, Richie was being drawn to Eddie by an invisible force.

"Get back!" Sonia barked as she gripped Eddie's good arm so tightly a fresh storm of tears flooded his eyes and yanked him away from Richie—who only wanted to care for Eddie the way he should be cared for, not by trying to fix his arm, not by nearly breaking his other arm to try to keep his friends away from him, but by being gentle. Gentle and understanding and uplifting, not belittling him or making him seem weaker than he is, because Eddie Kaspbrak was not _weak_. He just needed to be cared for sometimes, like everyone else, but Sonia didn't do it right.

Sonia continued growling at Richie and the group of teens behind him despite not one of them listening, all of them far too focused on the white cast restraining Eddie's arm and the way she was holding him just _too_ tightly. " _You_ did this to him," she snarled, her grip on Eddie riling Richie up with even more rage as his focus adhered to his best friend.

The expression on his face was heart-wrenching; Eddie's eyes, in spite of the tears, were blank and emotionless. It tortured Richie to see, but he had to be there even if Eddie wasn't—no, he had to be there _because_ Eddie wasn't there entirely.

"It's okay," he mouthed to Eddie when Sonia wasn't focused on him. "You're going to be okay."

The smile Eddie gave was short-lived and spurious, and Richie couldn't help wondering what drugs she had him on, _how many_ drugs she had him on. He didn't even want to think about Eddie not smiling at him because he thought it was Richie's fault; he couldn't handle Eddie being mad at him or thinking _he_ hurt him.

"Don't ever come near my son again!" she was yowling, and then she was forcing Eddie into the house, and the door slammed and locked on Richie's heart so hard that it shattered.

He never really got to say goodbye. He wasn't sure how he would say it to begin with; he never planned on Eddie leaving. He supposed he should have seen it coming, though; he was always going to end up hurting Eddie—never intentionally, he couldn't do that to his best friend, to _Eddie_ —but he always seemed to hurt, be it himself or others. Explains his parents' relationship, he thought to himself.

He bit his lip as tears set fires in his eyes and the fire in his heart burnt out; with each teardrop that slipped down his cheek, his heart's warmth diminished. Eddie had left a warm imprint on his very soul, with his brilliant smile and his freckled face that almost always seemed to be blushing for one reason or another. But he was gone, and the imprint grew colder and more hollow without him there to fill the void. Richie should've known he was too good, should've built his walls thicker and prepared for the war that would wage between his heart and his head when Eddie was out of his life. He shouldn't have relied on his friend so much in such a short time, if at all. He needed to take better care of himself, because not only would Eddie not always be there to patch him up, but him not being there would tear Richie apart even more.

Richie chewed on his lip to try to keep his pain in. If anyone else with a heart as gold and warm as Eddie's (although he seriously doubted there was someone else as good as that boy in this world, much less this wretched town) heard his agony and decided to try to help, he might latch onto them, too, and he couldn't do that anymore. He couldn't rely on people and expect them to fix all of his problems, or any of his problems, because if anything, they would probably just create more. He gnawed on his quivering lip in such a determinedly self-loathing manner that he could soon taste the iron in his blood.

Eventually, he was too weak to choke down his cries, and when he drew in his next heavy breath, every wall he had built up began to collapse. Sobs wracked his body, shaking his shoulders and making his head ache almost as much as his heart.

He could feel arms hugging him, but he knew whose they _weren't_ , and whose they probably would never be again; regardless, he hugged back, desperately gripping the back of their shirt for something to ground him, anything to keep him from slipping further, but all he could think was Eddie, Eddie, Eddie Eddie Eddie Eddie EddieEddieEddie _Eddie_ and how naive he was to think he could ever rely on someone to fix a shattered plate when he hadn't managed to pick up all the pieces to begin with.

He needed Eddie, but all he had was a bunch of losers who would never understand the torment in his head or the heartache throbbing in his chest.

Richie never really _had_ his parents; they had always made it clear that they didn't care for him and would never love him, and so he'd never built hope there. But Eddie was his first real friend, his best friend, and they cared about each other. Eddie was the first person to care about Richie.

And now he was gone.

"Come on, Richie," the person embracing him—Stanley—whispered. "You can't stay here."

So he let them lead him away, away, away from Eddie Kaspbrak and his broken arm.

Everything hurt.

The heartbreak was emotional and nearly physical with the way raw agony ripped through his body, and he craved for an end to the devastation. He wished desperately for the pain to just _stop_ , but until now, Eddie had always been the real stopper to his pain. The boy's smile and his laugh and the way he scolded Richie for being utterly disgusting—all of it pulled Richie out of his misery and made him happy in an inexplicable way. Eddie gave him a place to feel at home, but now they both felt locked away and far, far from home.

It was unhealthy to rely on a person so much that being without them made you feel like you could die, but Richie didn't really have anything getting him through except Eddie and his own will. His will was crumbling along with all of the relationships he'd built up in the past weeks, and so his mental progress was at a cataclysmic standstill similar to leaning over the edge of the overhang at the quarry, or a dying person's heart monitor when their heart gives a final jerk.

"Are you alright?" Beverly asked in her motherly way, and Richie only then realized she was next to him, watching over him and waiting until she felt she was needed.

Richie seriously took the question in— _was_ he alright? He had this strange, completely immoral infatuation with a _boy_ —a boy who had gotten hurt because of _him_ —and he reacted by starting an argument that had made the atmosphere between the group tense and uncomfortable. Not to mention he was formidably thin and covered in bruises from beatings and band-aids from a boy far too worried about his health; the same boy he was bawling his eyes out over; the same boy he had hurt.

He came to the simply complex conclusion of, "No."

The strawberry blonde gave him a pitying look, and he absolutely _despised_ that. He knew how he looked, he didn't need her showing him how tragic it was. But he reveled in her attention, because she _cared_ , and as far as he knew, none of the others did—if anything, they just wanted to escape the awkward situation.

The group of losers turned into Richie's yard, each of them letting their bicycles fall to the ground carelessly (except Stan, who set his up on the kickstand as per usual). Richie led them up to the porch, fished for the spare key on the wooden boards of the portico, and let them in. All of his actions were sluggish, as though he'd just woken up from a decade-long coma and was shoved into an entirely different world with little to no guidance.

His parents were gone, as usual, so the losers had free reign over the house.

While the others went for the living room or the kitchen (which weren't that hard to find), Beverly took his wrist with a soft hand and led him aside to a separate room (the action didn't go unnoticed by Bill or Ben, but neither made a move to stop her), which happened to be the bathroom. When she closed the door behind them and released him, he pulled himself onto the counter, folded his arms, and tutted with a grin, "Consent, Bev, consent," as though he'd made any attempt to stop her, as if anything about the tears still streaming down his face against his will was remotely sexual.

She scrutinized him for a long moment, as though the grin didn't fit on his blotchy, tear-stained face. The judgement made him swing his feet and pick at his nails until she sighed and her features went lax. "You like him, don't you?"

Richie's breath caught in his throat and he flinched so violently that his coke-bottle glasses slid down his nose; he gawked at her with bulging eyes over the frame of them. " _What_? Er- uh, I mean, yeah, a'cawse I like Eds! Eds is a _dawl_! An absahlute treat, he is! The best a'friends! Best y'could ask fawah! A' _cawse_ I like Eddie Spaghetti! I-"

"Richie," Beverly interrupted. He fell silent. She gazed at him sympathetically. "You _like_ him. It's hard to miss the way you look at him, and you're so... so _destroyed_ by him being hurt and then taken away from you without you being able to help or do anything about it."

With furrowed eyebrows, he scoffed and ignored the drop in his heart from all of the frantic memories—it already felt as though the fight happened years ago. "Yeah, because I'm _totally_ a..." he trailed off and let his eyes drop to the floor. He sunk his teeth into his lip once more as recollections of Henry Bowers and pain drowned his thoughts. " _Whatever_. You're crazy."

"Deny it however much you want, Rich. It's okay, you know—if you _do_ like him. It's not a bad thing."

"That explains why Bowers gits a hoot out'a callin' me a 'fuckin' faggit'!" he exclaimed in an awful Southern Voice.

Beverly's eyes flashed to the ground at the word, but nonetheless, she reached out and rubbed his arm to comfort him. "And he calls me a slut, and Ben a fatass, and Bill a broken record, and Stan a Nazi-experiment-gone-wrong, and Mike... you know. And Eddie-"

"Pretty Boy, flamer, fairy, faggot, Wheezy, Girly Boy... yeah. _I know_."

She spared him another sympathetic look before continuing, "We're all losers, Rich; we're all outsiders. It's okay if you are too."

Richie gulped, allowing the words to settle and fester in his mind; it was _okay_ if he was different, even if it was entirely disgusting and immoral and gave the bullies more reason to beat him, because he had a group of amazing people who were different, too, and he supposed they turned out alright (although Stan was a bit of a stiff and Bill was a gargantuan fucking asshole).

"Oh... okay." He sighed and nudged his glasses up his nose. "Well then... yeah. I'm..." He shifted his gaze from the floor up to her knowing, understanding, _loving_ eyes. A mother's eyes, he noticed, and felt himself settle. "I like Eddie."

Beverly smiled, and there was a little spark of the fire Eddie's smiles could light in his heart. "Thank you, Richie. I'm proud of you."

"Yeah, yeah. Thanks for not hating me, I know you were head-over-heels for me. It's okay. I'm sorry I had to let you down this way, doll," he joked, even pressing a kiss to her hand if only just to touch, to feel physical comfort.

She snickered and mumbled a "yeah right," before kissing his lightly-freckled cheek (he didn't jump this time, but maybe it was because he was too exhausted to be scared, to tired of being defensive to be defensive) and holding his hand tighter—it was like she knew exactly what Richie needed. "I accept you, Tozier. Things are going to be alright. Trust me."

A genuine, eased smile tugged at Richie's lips, but it only took a small thought to make that smile fall. "And..." he sighed dismally. "And Eddie?"

Before she answered, she placed her hands on his shoulders and delicately pulled him down into a tender hug. "Eddie, too."

That was what he needed to hear.

He let himself genuinely relax for the first time in days.

▼

"Eds?"

Richie watched Eddie come to a halt in the hallway. The other teens filtered around him, some shoving to get past him, but just as quickly as he'd stopped, he was hurrying away.

Richie watched Eddie go with the sound of students' footsteps and his own heartbreak deafening him.

▼

"Eds."

Eddie stopped again, but this time he recovered much faster. He began pushing through the crowd, running as though he was escaping certain death.

Richie followed after him.

" _Eds_."

It only took seconds for Richie to lose sight of the tiny asthmatic.

▼

"Eds!"

He got on his bike and pedaled away faster than Richie could pull his out of the rack.

▼

"Eddie!"

The teenager bolted into his house, and Richie could hear the locks lock from the sidewalk.

▼

Richie was tired of trying.

Eddie was avoiding him. That much was obvious. No, Eddie wasn't avoiding him—he was running away, he was _escaping_ , as if Richie was some sort of virus or some murderer.

And maybe that was what Eddie believed. Maybe Eddie had come to think that Richie had been the one to hurt him, or that Richie had been the reason Eddie had gotten hurt in the first place.

And maybe he was right.

Eddie wasn't getting beaten up before he started hanging out with Richie; at least, not to Richie's knowledge. And even if he was, it was never nearly as bad as it was with Richie. So maybe it _was_ Richie's fault.

Sitting alone in his room and keeping silent, fading in and out of consciousness, Richie had a lot of time to think. So he thought. He thought about Eddie, and his neat, fluffy hair and his sunny skin and his cute little freckles and his flashing eyes that always seemed to be rolling in their sockets because of some bullshit Richie spewed. His eyes were always so bright, especially when the sun hit them just right and brought out the warmth he made Richie feel, but now his eyes seemed dull, and the darting of them was from nerves rather than excitement. Richie missed his eyes. He missed his eyes and his smile and his laugh and his smart comments and the way he was constantly worrying about health and the way he would tap his fingers on any hard surface when he was angry or anxious or anticipating and the way his ears would dust with rosy heat when Richie said something that managed to get under his skin, which, in his proud opinion, wasn't hard to do.

Richie was more content when he was with Eddie, more satisfied. Eddie made him feel complete.

What hurt almost more was that he didn't really have anyone else to make up for Eddie's absence (not that anyone ever could, really). No matter how hard they tried, cramped lunches with the Losers became more socially awkward than they were physically, and eventually just passing each other in the halls took effort. Soon enough, Bill and Stan were the only ones still able to communicate without wanting to crawl in a hole and die. At least, the only ones who were able to that still _did_ ; Beverly and Mike could get along with anyone, but it wasn't the same without everyone else with them, too, and soon enough, even hanging out with them became unbearable.

In other words, Richie Tozier was completely and totally alone.

It wasn't like he'd never been alone—for most of his life, actually, he'd been completely alone, save for his abusive parents, but even then they had a habit of leaving him alone for hours. Overtime, a few hours became several, and then it was almost a day by himself, and then he was questioning if his parents would ever return to beat him and mistreat him.

But now that he'd experienced _not_ being alone, having real friends that cared about him and laughed with him, and a best friend that cared _for_ him, he felt even lower than he did before he met Eddie Kaspbrak.

Maybe that was a sign. Maybe it just went to show that people hurt each other, unintentionally or otherwise, and he was better off alone, anyways.

But he didn't _want_ to be alone; he never did. He wanted friends, a best friend, too, and Eddie. He guessed he would go through this lonely suffering, in which he only moved from his bed to piss, shit, and go to school, a million times over if it meant he could be with Eddie and the Losers the way they were for those few long months.

He missed all of his friends—Stan, Mike, Beverly, Bill, Ben—but he fell asleep crying just thinking about how much he missed Eddie's laugh. He hadn't seen Eddie smile since before the fight, on that cliff. What he'd seen was Eddie crying and vomiting and _bleeding_ , and then he didn't see Eddie _really_ smile again. He craved that smile, that blissful smile when he giggled quietly and his eyes went all squinty and his nose scrunched in that precious little way that made Richie swoon.

He wanted Eddie's warmth and his bandages and his soft hands and his fanny packs and his shorts that were a little too short in everyone but Richie's eyes.

Richie wanted Eddie.

Eddie didn't want Richie.

And nothing hurt Richie more than that. Not even his father's and his bullies' beatings; they still hit him and called him names even though he could barely stand to look at other boys anymore, because all he could think about was that they weren't _Eddie_.

No one would ever be as _Eddie_ as Eddie, and Eddie was gone. So what did Richie have left?

Five sort-of-friends and abusive parents and the cigarettes Beverly offered him whenever they talked.

The cigarettes didn't help with the longing as much as they created more of it, and so he found himself stuck in a rut.

▼

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i got a chance to update (finally) but next week i might also miss an update. if that does happen, i'll update when i do get the chance. thank you for being patient with me!


	6. Sonia Kaspbrak Can Choke (On This D-)

▼

 **Days went by,** and Richie watched from afar as Eddie Kaspbrak slowly broke down. His fiery, sarcastic personality all but burned out as Sonia Kaspbrak continued feeding him pills and he continued avoiding the Losers at all cost.

"We need to talk," Richie told him as he finally managed to corner Eddie when the boy was getting his books from his locker. The short boy jumped out of his skin as he whirled around, and as soon as they were facing each other, both of their expressions changed; Eddie's softened, still having the slight edge to it, while Richie's completely froze.

There was a spectacle on the fragile, already-damaged boy's face in the form of a colossal bruise coloring his stunned eyes.

Richie's immediate instinct was, of course, to grab Eddie's cheek and fret over him. "What happened, Eddie? Who did this? I'll kick their ass, I swear to god. I'll make them regret the day they were born. Are you alright? Does this hurt?" he gingerly caressed the imprint, and when Eddie's eye only twitched slightly while glaring up at him, he let out a heavy sigh and allowed his hands to fall into his pockets. "Right. You're pissed. Come on, just-"

"I am not being late for _you_ , Tozier."

Eddie's voice was gravelly, and he winced as he spoke.

" _Eddie_ ," Richie breathed, moving back in to touch and hold and _protect_ his best friend that had been ignoring him for days on the basis of his obese, hyper-hypochondriac of a mother. "Eddie, what _happened_?"

"What do you think fucking happened?" Eddie snapped in that awful voice that crushed Richie's heart. "Henry Bowers beat me half to death and I puked and cried so much that I dehydrated. Then, a week or three later he decided to jump me while I was alone and shove rocks down my throat. Now my voice is fucked up." He slammed his locker shut and shoved past Richie. The short brunet only managed to get a few feet away before the bell shrieked. Eddie halted in his tracks, his shoulders tense with the frustration that's been bubbling up inside of his minuscule body since the day he found Richie beaten in the football field.

Richie wasn't sure how to keep Eddie Kaspbrak from boiling over.

He stepped forward in a way similar to how a stray dog or cat might approach a human with food, making sure to be gentle as he intertwined their hands (little shock waves rippled up his spine from the intimate contact, and he berated himself for having the urge to hug him like he used to) and led him into the nearest supply closet. The bathroom had crossed his mind, but he figured that wouldn't do much to calm Eddie down.

"How many?" Richie inquired as he leaned against the only bare wall and rubbed his thumb over Eddie's knuckles. It wasn't most intimate situation they'd been in, but it still made both of them more comfortable than they'd admit. "How many pills does she have you on?"

"Too many," Eddie answered, and the roughness of his voice still startled Richie. He couldn't get used to such a hoarse sound coming from such a small, lovable boy. "I feel dead."

After Eddie sat down, Richie slid down the wall and began playing with the boy's fingers, retracing memories of band-aids and ice packs—he was glad Eddie was letting him. "Isn't that the opposite of what's supposed to happen?"

" _Tozier_ ," Eddie began, somehow sounding impatiently patient, "she's doped me up on at least eight different kinds of pills and I have to take three of each daily, according to her; I really don't think I'm going to get the desired fucking effects."

Richie's lips tugged into a soft smile; _that_ was Eddie, because no matter what the tiny bitch boy went through, he'd still be a sarcastic shit at heart. He'd probably back-talk to his murderer if anyone ever decided they wanted to kill him. "I'm sorry."

Eddie looked up from his crossed legs to eye the taller boy. "For what? It's not like you're the one that keeps trying to kill me with medicine." His heart wrenched at the concern wrinkling Richie's face. It hurt how much he cared, even after Eddie ignoring him and the others for so long.

"Yeah, but I should've been keeping a closer eye on you." He stopped playing with Eddie's hand and moved his hands back to the bruised boy's face to cup his cheeks. "I shouldn't have just given up because we weren't talking." Then, because he's Richie, he patted Eddie's (cheek and grinned. "And for saying stupid shit."

Eddie almost melted.

Almost.

He went rigid under Richie's warm touch. "My ma says it's your fault. I got hurt because of _you_ \- I'm getting hurt because of you. You're hurting me, Richie," he breathed- no, he _wheezed_. His throat was closing up. It felt like there was an impossibly heavy weight on his lungs, but he had to keep going, he _had_ to tell Richie what he did to him. "You- _you_ brought me into this, I- I- I was fucking _fine_ until you decided to get hurt and- and I- I got so _worried_ , Richie, I just wanted to help you, but you hurt me. You're _hurting_ me."

Richie instantly removed his hands from Eddie's face like he was a hot stove, but it scolded Eddie even more. His eyes swam in his tears, and that was when Richie finally broke; he threw his arms around Eddie and tugged him into his chest, allowing the boy to cry into his shoulder.

And he did. Eddie had to muffle his cries into the crook of Richie's neck as he sobbed, because everything was so, so wrong in their world.

It was an awkward hug due to the cast, and he repeatedly told Richie to _stop_ hugging him, yet he wouldn't let him go. He bawled into his ex-best-friend-of-sorts' shoulder until his throat felt ripped up. Eddie needed the soft burn of Richie's touch; it made him warm and comfortable and he _craved_ it, but it hurt because it was _Richie Tozier_ , and it was _his_ fault that the cast was on Eddie's arm and that there were bruises plastered all over his skin—it _had_ to be, because his mom said so.

The woman had successfully turned Eddie on his best friends.

He gripped the back of Richie's Hawaiian button-up, and then he was holding the boy's hair and his cheeks and ears and face and Eddie could only think about how completely _idiotic_ he was. "I'm so fucking stupid, Richie. Richie, Richie, _Richie_ , oh my god _Richie_."

He chuckled warmly, pulling Eddie back against his chest. Eddie felt Richie's lips press against his head, and he finally, _finally_ felt himself take a deep breath and dissolve into Richie's arms. "I'm so fucking _stupid_. I let her convince me that it was you guys that- that hurt me, but- but it could never be, you guys couldn't do that to me."

Eddie wasn't sure what took him so long to realize that the woman who had been lying to him about his health since he was five years old was lying to him now. _Shocker_.

He wrapped his not-broken arm around Richie's waist and pressed himself closer. That warmth wasn't enough. He pushed further. _Not enough_. Eventually he was curled up in Richie's lap, but it wasn't enough.

But he could feel something. Something wrong.

He frowned into Richie's shirt and pulled back slightly, unraveling his arm from Richie's waist to feel up his torso. He gasped when he realized what he'd felt—Richie's ribs.

Richie was half-starved. That explained why he was so lanky and pale.

He reached for Richie's face next, tugging him down gently to meet his gaze. God, his eyes were _beautiful_ , but they flashed away as they met Eddie's heartbroken, concerned gaze. "Richie, you're so _thin_ ," he told him as if he didn't know. "I mean, I knew you were, but- _Richie_!" He paused for a moment to let himself calm down from his rising panic, which was made easier when Richie was drawing little shapes on Eddie's palm with his fingertips.

"It's your parents, isn't it?"

Richie's breath hitched, making Eddie instinctively intertwine their fingers (as best as he could with a cast) and reach up with his other hand to gingerly rub the taller teen's neck. "Hey, I'm here, Rich, I'm right here. You're okay. _Talk to me_."

Richie swallowed—Eddie shivered when he felt it under his palm—and nodded in an attempt to console himself. "They're never home, Eds, and when they are, they're too busy screaming at each other or- or..."

Eddie squeezed his hand in an attempt to reassure and comfort him. He could see Richie pinching the skin on his knee and picking at his nails and chewing on his lip harder than necessary, and he didn't want that. He didn't want Richie hurting; especially not hurting _himself_. "You're okay, Richie," he whispered. "I've got you."

"They scream at me and if they're mad enough they'll beat me. It hurts. It hurts _so_ much. They hate me too much to take care of me, their only kid, and it _hurts_."

Eddie bit his lip harshly to keep his own nerves down. Gazing up at Richie with that knowledge made hot tears boil their way to the surface of his eyes. "I'm so sorry. I... I'll bring food from home, _I'll_ take care of you, Richie. And- I mean, if you want, you could sneak into my house and stay over. You could keep clothes there for when you spend the night, or whatever you want, and I'll take care of you. You deserve that. You deserve to be loved, Trashmouth."

Richie smiled down at him, but it was sad and weak, as though just _thinking_ about his parents exhausted him. "You're sweet, Spaghetti Head. Sweet and salty." He smirked and added, "I'm _spicy_."

Eddie rolled his eyes and pretended to gag. "You're disgusting is what _you_ are."

"You love me, Eddie Spaghetti, and you know it!"

"Don't call me Eddie Spaghetti, I may love you but I _hate_ that!"

Richie gasped, beaming, and exclaimed, "So you admit it!"

Eddie knocked his fist into Richie's shoulder, snickering. "Whatever you say, Tozier."

"Well, monsieur, it just so happens that you make me feel just foine! Foine _indeed_." He wiggled his eyebrows.

"Richie," he exasperated, "you're a fucking nightmare, truly."

"If you can call wet dreams nightmares, you're into some groovy shit."

"Richie!"

"You're not the only one that's said my name that loud!"

"I will slap you."

"That's what he said."

" _Why_ would he say that?"

"I call him daddy for a reason."

Eddie pulled from Richie's sides to cover his face with his hand. "Really? You really just said that? You- I- I don't even- what the hell, Richie."

"Aww, Eddie the Spaghettihead is _embarrassed_! Ladies and gents, boys and girls, people of all ages, Edward Spaghedward is _embarrassed_ , you heard it here first!" he giggled, poking Eddie's sides teasingly. "What's wrong, Spaghet? You frustrated? Did Rich the Bitch foin'ly getcha?"

"Beep-beep! Beep-beep beep-beep beep-beep, turn _off_!" Eddie yelped, grabbing at Richie's hands to stop him. "I! Hate! That! _Quit_ it, Richie!"

Richie wiped a tear from his eye, his shoulders bouncing with laughter, and Eddie couldn't stop the smile that lifted his face at the sight, so he shook his head and folded his arms over his belly. "Alright, I'll- I'll stop," Richie giggled.

Eddie huffed, the smile still tugging persistently at his cheeks, and flicked Richie's nose. "You're so annoying."

"I love you, too, jackass."

They grinned at each other with red cheeks and dancing eyes for a long moment before falling back into their sexual-innuendo-filled conversation.

When the bell rang again only a few minutes later, the two of them sneaked out of the supply closet (which Richie wouldn't stop mumbling jokes about) and forced their way through the crowd to get to their next class, which they thankfully had together. Unfortunately, Eddie sat in the front while Richie sat close to the back in the middle.

Both of them were happy to receive confused looks as they shared amused glances and smirks. Richie even attempted to mouth something to Eddie, but the boy couldn't read his lips—partially because he was too busy staring to actually read them, but he doubted he'd understand even if he really tried—and it only frustrated both of them, so they gave up.

Stanley was also in that class. He sat a few seats across from Richie, and nearly every time Eddie turned around to look at said boy, he made awkward eye contact with the aforementioned teenager. Stanley and Eddie hadn't been particularly close when the losers were the (capital L) Losers (capital C) _Club_ , but Stanley and Richie were, and a part of Eddie wanted to switch seats with Richie so that _he'd_ be the one making eye contact with Stan and maybe the two could be friends again.

Either way, the class went on, and Eddie was happier than he'd been in weeks. Richie had his weird way of doing that to people. It really didn't surprise him that it only took an hour of being around him to fall back into their old ways, especially since they'd only been apart for a month, more or less.

When the bell dismissing class (which it did. If the bell didn't dismiss class, then the bell couldn't justify who was late, and teachers could choose to dismiss five minutes into class or ten hours into class. Fuck teachers who keep students after the bell) rang out, Eddie practically jumped out of his seat and over all of the others to get to Richie, who chuckled as the short boy struggled to properly get his book bag on his shoulders.

The two of them had almost made it out of the room when Stanley tapped Richie on the shoulder.

"So you two are cool?" he asked, glancing across Richie to Eddie, who had a seemingly permanent smile etched onto his face.

Richie smirked. "No, never have been, never will. Eddie's _hot_ , man. Oh, and I'm a loser. So no, Stan the Man, we're not _cool_."

Eddie and Stan both rolled their eyes. "We're okay, Stan," Eddie answered properly and linked his and Richie's _intact_ arms.

Stan's eyes grew to be the size of the moon when Eddie spoke. "Your voice-"

"I got dehydrated during the fight, and a few days after I was out of the hospital, Henry Bowers decided to shove dirt and rocks and shit down my throat." Eddie bristled at the memory, his blood running cold. "And if you're wondering about my eye, that was Bowers, too."

Stan nodded and gave Eddie an empathetic smile. "Sorry about that. I hope you feel better soon enough, dude."

" _Dude_ ," Richie teased, earning a light smack on the head from Stan.

Bill sidled up to them next, not taking notice of Eddie and Richie until the two began laughing at how oblivious he was. "O-oh, h-h-hey gu- _guys_? W-w-when d-did- did you t-two start t-t-talk- talking again?"

"Like two hours ago," Richie answered.

"Huh," Stan and Bill replied.

Eventually, Bill _really_ got a look at them. His jaw nearly dropped. "E-Eddie, what h-h-happened to y-y-y-"

"My eye?" he finished, bringing his hand up to gently touch it. "Henry Bowers, as usual."

As he lifted his arm, Richie noticed the word written across Eddie's cast.

**_LOSER_ **

Richie smiled softly down at him. It was a smile no one saw, but one that resonated with him for the rest of the day; even when he came home to an empty house and broken dishes that had been thrown during a fight; even when he had to clean up the mess; even when he had to do the laundry; even when he sneaked out the backdoor as soon as he heard the front door slam shut.

He had the smile on his face all day because of Eddie.

And throwing sticks at Eddie Kaspbrak's window until he opened it to let him in, Richie had that same content smile on his face.

"Richie, what the _fuck_?" Eddie gasped as he pushed the window open.

"You said that, if I wanted, I could spend the night at your house, right?" he beamed up at Eddie devilishly, fully aware of how _unaware_ the hypochondriac was and loving it, because the boy was still reaching his arms out for Richie and helping him scale the side of the house despite having no clue that he was even going to come over moments before.

Richie gripped the window sill and heaved himself into the room, tripping over Eddie and stumbling a bit. He grabbed onto said sixteen-year-old for balance, that cheeky grin still plastered on his face, and he didn't think he'd ever been happier to have his heart attempting to break free from his chest.

He moved his hands up from Eddie's shoulders to his cheeks and pinched them before kissing him briskly on the forehead. "You're a _star_ , Eddo Spagheddo!" he announced in a commentator voice. With that, he kicked off his Converse, dropped his backpack to the floor, and flopped onto Eddie's bed with his hands folded behind his head.

"Shhh!" Eddie hissed as he threw his blanket back around his pantless legs. He pouted when the action made Richie snicker. "My mom will literally kill me if she knows I snuck someone in here, let alone one of the Losers, let alone _you_ , Richie, so shut the fuck up." He pushed the window shut quietly, but his glare softened when he turned back to Richie, and he bit on his lip. "Alright, how are we gonna do this... she doesn't come in my room most of the time, thankfully, so that should be fine, but... how are we gonna-" He suddenly looked away from Richie, staring at the foot of the bed with wide eyes. Picking at the threads of his cast and shuffling his weight was becoming a nervous tic of his. "Uh- um- I'll just- sleep- I'll sleep, uh... fuck."

Richie's lips pulled up into yet another smirk as he realized what was bothering Eddie. He opened his arms for Eddie with that shit-eating grin and wiggled his eyebrows. Oh-so inviting. "You want some good lovin', Eddie Cast-brak?"

Eddie sniffed indignantly, eyeing Richie from the corner of his eye. He would've been happy to sleep in the same bed as Richie if he wasn't being so _Richie_ about it. He shuffled to the left side of the bed, sat down, and turned to face Richie with his legs tucked under himself and his fingers tugging loose threads of the blanket. "Move over."

Richie was intentionally sprawling himself across the majority of the bed, and he was fully aware of how aggravating it was. He squinted purposefully at Eddie. "Why? You have room, doncha, Eds?"

"Richie Tozier I swear to god-"

"What are you gonna do, Spaghet?"

Eddie bristled, entirely fed up with Richie's bullshit. It only took a short time for him to be smothering a giggle. "I know exactly what I'll do, Richie."

Richie quirked an eyebrow just before Eddie yanked the pillow from under his head and slammed it into bespectacled boy's pale face. Richie giggled, grabbing at the pillow while Eddie continued to berate him with it. This went on until Richie sat up to try to get a better advantage, and Eddie took the opportunity to throw himself in the open space on the bed. As Richie tried to push him back, Eddie went limp to make the task harder, and eventually Richie gave up and the two lay on the bed, Richie under the comforter and Eddie on top of it, bundled in his blanket.

Eddie, of course, had managed to take up over half of the bed, but he tediously shifted back to give Richie more room.

"It's sort of weird that this is the first time I've been in your room, Eds."

Eddie watched Richie's eyes trail around his room and followed them, smiling at every little giggle that came from Richie. "The fuck are you laughing about, asshat?"

"This is definitely your room," he breathed. "Books everywhere, clothes everywhere, pill bottles everywhere... is that- is that a Queen poster? Behind your door?"

Eddie knocked his cast into Richie's shoulder as the boy began snickering loudly. "My ma would kill me if she knew I liked their music. She's homophobic... Not that they're gay- or that I'm gay... Does it make me gay for listening to their music? Henry says so- not that I listen to Henry, he's an asshole, but my mom would kill me if I was. She's like that... She thinks it's a sickness or something, and if she tried to find a cure for being gay... yikes."

Richie just smiled knowingly at Eddie. "Eds, it doesn't matter. It's a band, and you're a person. That's all that really matters, right?"

Eddie ran the idea through his head for several minutes. He supposed Richie was right; it didn't actually matter what others thought about the band or himself, as long as he liked it. And he supposed he did. He nodded slowly.

"And it doesn't matter if they're gay, or if you're gay. And you're right, Henry's an asshole, and so is your mom. I'll fuck them both."

Eddie's eyebrows shot into the exosphere. "Did you just say you'd fuck Henry Bowers?"

"Not literally, Eds, never literally. I'll fuck him up, though." He punched his fists into the air above him with a grin. "He won't know what hit him."

"A crazy teenage boy will probably be the first thing to his mind, and that'll be the first thing he's ever said about you that's _right_."

"He's called me ugly before, Spaghetti Head..." A bashful smile graced Richie's lips. "You really want some good lovin', huh, lover boy?"

Eddie snorted and rolled his eyes. He would stand by what he'd said until Henry Bowers complimented Richie Tozier. "Whatever, he was wrong about that, too."

Richie paused for a moment. "And a fag?"

Eddie gritted his teeth and stared at the pillow behind Richie's head, trying to separate Richie's voice and _that_ word, because he never wanted to hear it from him again. "I- I don't know, Rich... was he? You joke about it a lot," he mumbled, and then quickly and quietly, almost to himself, "but that's probably just you making fun of them, huh?"

Another pause, and Eddie looked over to meet Richie's magnified eyes. They watched each other cautiously for what must have been days, both of them blanched and terrified, for the first time, of each other. Richie narrowed his eyes. "You really think that I'd make fun of good people for something they can't change about themselves?" Then, Richie turned away and mumbled, "Goodnight, Eds."

There was a long silence that followed that wasn't filled by sleep, but fear. Eddie quietly, dreadfully asked, "Do you want space?"

Richie was quiet for a time, but then he was rolling back over and watching Eddie through the thick glasses he still hadn't taken off. "Space is the last thing I need, Eddie."

Eddie prodded the boy's hand with a finger, then two, and soon enough he'd enveloped Richie's hand with his own. They both glanced from their locked hands to their locked eyes, back and forth, and eventually sheepish smiles cracked across their faces and they giggled into the dark.

The Kaspbrak house, Eddie had come to realize, felt more like a home with Richie in it, in his room, in his bed, in his blankets, in his hand.

They fell asleep that way, but throughout the night, they shifted closer together, until Eddie was underneath the comforter with his leg fit between both of Richie's, his cast-bound arm lolled over Richie's hip, and he snored softly against Richie's collarbone while the taller boy's chin hooked over his head.

Their hands were still intertwined between them.

▼

"Eddie!"

Richie startled awake, his eyes flashing open and flickering around as he bunched his muscles and got ready to defend himself. He sat upright and readjusted his glasses quickly, and when the covers pulled against him, his attention was drawn to the half-asleep boy next to him. Where were they? Why were they together? Why did he like it?

"Eddie Bear?"

Shit.

"Eds," he whispered, untangling their limbs reluctantly and nudging Eddie's shoulder. "Spaghetti Head, wake the fuck up!"

Eddie's frustrated groan turned into a yawn, and he stretched like a cat.

Richie couldn't help the thumping in his chest as he watched, from anxiety or otherwise, and fought the agonizingly strong urge to brush his hands through Eddie's wild bedhead.

"What?" Eddie drawled.

"Your mom's calling for you."

The small boy sat bolt upright and launched out of bed, scrambling to the door and throwing it open. "Yeah, Ma, I'm up!" he shouted down the hall, then closed the door and leaned against it. "Shit."

Richie grinned dumbly at him and watched as Eddie rolled his eyes in spite of a small grin making its way across his cheeks. _Cute, cute, cute_ , he thought, tossing the covers off of himself and sliding out of the bed. He marched over to Eddie, stopped in front of him, stood up so straight it popped his back, and saluted. "How are we to proceed, General Kaspbrak?" he asked, trying to deepen his voice and falling into a fit of laughter.

"Do _what_?" Eddie snapped crankily and moved around Richie to pull a pair of shorts out of his dresser.

Richie followed him, drumming on the short boy's shoulder until he grumbled his complaints. "Get me owta heyah, of cowas, Spaghettay! Cain't have Mama Kaspbrak findin' out about me bein' up heyah, now can we?" He ruffled Eddie's hair, earning himself a sharp glare which he paid back with a sheepish smile.

Eddie shrugged, tossing the shorts onto the bed and digging in his closet for a shirt. "I'll throw you out the window."

Richie snickered. "As if you could lift me. Broken arm, remember? _And_ you're tiny."

Eddie came to a sudden halt in his searching, his shoulders tense, and Richie gawked with internalized horror as the boy turned to stare him down. "Is that... a _challenge_ , Tozier?" he practically growled, stalking forward.

Richie didn't think he'd ever felt so vulnerable to such a tiny boy. He gulped. "Perhapth, _Mithter_."

Eddie prowled towards Richie. His eyes seemed to twitch, but maybe that was just Richie hallucinating.

In a flash, he was jumping at Richie to grab his hips and lift him, but surprisingly, Richie reacted faster; he swept Eddie up by his bare knees and caught his shoulders when he fell. The captured teenager yelped and swatted at Richie's chest—Richie was certain the cast would break his jaw, and the fact that he was _actually_ worried about that confirmed Eddie was rubbing off on him as much as he was rubbing off on Eddie—even while laughing and shouting at the taller boy to put him down.

They fell into a shocked silence, however, when Eddie's door squealed open.

"Eddie Bear?"

The room had become so silent, you could hear a pin drop.

The floor was carpet.

Eddie broke the silence by snatching his inhaler from atop the dresser and shooting off on it. "Hey, Mommy," he breathed.

"Ed- Eddie Bear, is this not the boy who got you _hurt_? Is he hurting you?" she asked, and if Eddie were to guess, she was about to explode.

He spared a glance up at Richie, his heart racing loud enough to startle him into a state of rubatosis, but he was somewhat comforted by just looking at him. The comfort lasted until Richie made eye contact with him and he was yanked rather violently into the disturbing reality of the situation; he was in another boy's arms. _Richie's_ arms. Not only that, but it was in front of his mother. Even worse, he didn't even have pants on (to be fair, he did have boxers on, but that wasn't much better).

"Ma, I..." he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut so he could pretend Richie and Sonia weren't there. "I'm sorry."

"Put my son down, you _filthy_ boy," she growled, finally directing her attention to Richie. Eddie could hear her footsteps like trees collapsing in a storm or dominoes falling, paving the way to their inevitable doom.

Sonia was going to test Eddie for all kinds of diseases because of Richie, but he wasn't filthy or diseased; he was clean. A crushing yet lifting feeling washed over Eddie from such a purely impure realization; he saw Richie as the cleanest boy he'd ever met. Richie didn't feel like illness to him. He felt like crisp rain, or fresh air, or a gentle breeze during a warm summer's day.

Richie felt like _freedom_.

Eddie opened his eyes and gazed up at Richie, teeming with confidence. He tucked his inhaler back into his pocket, rolled out of the boy's arms and grabbed his hand. With one swift movement, Eddie was yanking Richie past Sonia and through the hall filled with memories of forced smiles and marriages of distant relatives; he hurried him down the stairs his mother trudged up every day; they stumbled out the front door, hands still interlocked by some miracle.

Squeezing Richie's hand and grinning devilishly up at him, Eddie sprinted past the conveniently-planted tree next to his bedroom window to the tall, wooden fencing around the backyard. He turned to Richie, bouncing on his heels to release his energy and heat his legs up through the chill. By then he was practically wheezing, but he managed to control his breathing enough.

"Pick me up, Rich." He could hear Sonia crying out for him at the front door. He smiled confidently up at Richie. "Come on, Tozier. I need you to get me over this fence."

Richie seemed to snap out of his trance with that. Eddie turned around and ignored the electricity that buzzed through his veins as Richie carefully grabbed his hips and lifted him up. The inexplicable assertiveness filling his chest where air didn't motivated him to grip the fence and pull himself up the rest of the way. His cast made the task nearly impossible. However, he still made it up, and he even had the confidence to wink at Richie before swinging his other leg over and hopping into the backyard.

Eddie unlocked the latch with his left hand and swung the door open, allowing Richie to hurry in, but just as he was closing the door, he spotted Sonia stumbling from the porch towards the backyard. He gasped and stealthily locked the gate back, and then he was grabbing Richie's hand and tugging him through the backdoor and back into the house.

"I've got to shower, but she's all ready to go to work. If you lock the front door, she'll leave." Eddie watched Richie from the corner of his eye; the boy was glancing from him to the the rest of the living room. Eddie smiled sheepishly and eyed the floor.

Richie took one last moment to pretend he wasn't staring at Eddie before he locked the front door. Only seconds later, when Eddie was halfway up the steps, there came a banging at the door and a wailing of his name. He froze mid-step and turned back, not to eye the door nervously like he typically would, but to see Richie. The boy had reeled away, staring at the door with feral fear.

"Rich..." he whispered, taking a cautious step down, but a simple realization had him jumping over the remainder of the stairs and rushing to Richie, pushing at his sides, trying desperately to get him away from the door. "Rich, she has a key! _Richie_!"

That seemed to be the secret password to start up the boy's instincts. Richie allowed Eddie pull him through the house to the guest bedroom. Eddie locked the door and pulled Richie to the small space between the bed and the wall. It was claustrophobic and hot, but it was necessary. Richie was pressed into the corner and Eddie was somewhat squashed against him. The cast was a huge inconvenience to the entire shenanigan.

Their heavy breathing was the only sound other than Sonia's wild sobbing that echoed throughout the house as she entered. Eddie touched his inhaler, a nervous tic of his, and glanced at Richie; they needed to be quieter. Richie, thankfully, read his expression well enough. They quietened their breathing.

"Eddie Bear! What did that boy do to you? He has _germs_ , Eddie! He'll make you _sick_. Where are you, Eddie? It's your mommy, I'm here, Eddie, come to me! _Eddie_!"

Eddie winced and turned around to fit his not-broken arm around Richie. "She's full of shit," he barely breathed. "You've not got germs, Rich. You're... you're _clean_. You're good. You make me feel... healthy. Better than any of her bullshit pills. You're real, Rich." He nodded. That was what he wanted to say.

Richie's arms slipped around him, tugging them closer. He gave in to the cafuné he'd felt since the moment he saw Eddie's bedhead and gently brushed his hands through Eddie's hair while managing to ignore Sonia. The tiny boy had succeeded in filling his senses, with the smell of a pharmacy and freshly-washed cotton; the sound of his rough breathing; the soft hair underneath Richie's fingertips and against his cheek; the wrinkles in his clothes from sleep and exercise, and the wild hair straying from the rest. A smile spread across Richie's cheeks in contemplation of the situation.

"You make me feel... _exhilarated_ ," Richie told the boy in his arms. "But... you also calm me down. Better than anybody else. And not in a depressed way... in a content way. Uh... yeah. Yeah."

Eddie just giggled and hugged him tighter. "Alright."

Alright. He could take that.

The doorknob jiggled.

Eddie's breath caught, almost as harshly as Richie's.

"Eddie Bear?" Sonia called through the door.

"Breathe, Rich," Eddie whispered so quietly he had to press his mouth to Richie's ear. "Breathe. She can't get in, the lock is broken from the outside. We'll be alright. _Breathe_."

The knob twisted again and she knocked against the door. "Eddie, open the door!"

He balled Richie's shirt in his fist and tried not to cry. His voice was shaky and strained as he continued, trying to keep the rasp as quiet as possible. "You're okay, Richie. I'm with you. It's my mom, not yours. I won't let her take me away again, okay? I won't. I won't let her push you out, either. I w-"

"He's the one that hurt you, Eddie. He did it. He broke your arm."

Richie's embrace weakened around him, as if he thought he could hurt Eddie if he touched him.

"You didn't, Rich. You didn't hurt me. _She_ did. She lied and... and fed me fucking gazebos or whatever. You make me feel safe, Richie. You make me feel right. You're a good person."

"He deserves to be hurt. He deserves to be broken like he did to you. You're _fragile_ , Eddie."

Eddie had to grit his teeth to keep from screaming at her. "Don't listen, Richie. Please. She's so wrong, it wasn't your fault, you... you don't deserve to be hurt. You don't deserve that at all. I'm so sorry, Rich."

Richie nodded into Eddie's shoulder, grasping at his shirt and shoulders, anything to hold onto, so Eddie sat up against the bed and offered his left hand. Richie smiled and intertwined their fingers, and they sat there, breathing and coming down from their adrenaline high.

"Eddie Bear, I have to go to work. If that boy is still with you, if he's given you those _diseases_ — _AIDS_ , Eddie—I'll take you to the hospital. You're going to be okay Eddie. I love you, baby."

They heard her steps and soft cries fade away, the front door shut, a car door opening and closing, and then the engine taking off down the road.

After a few minutes of pure silence, Eddie stood up, pulling Richie up with him. For a long moment, he stared. He stared at their hands, and the way they fit so anatomically, so naturally; he couldn't understand why everything felt so right with Richie. He glanced at said teenager to find his face twisted with concern and a scintilla of anxiety as he studied Eddie's expression.

Eddie's lips pulled into a reassuring smile and he gave a small nod. It was enough to assert Richie's hold on Eddie's hand and his stride next to the shorter boy. "What are we doing, Eddie Spaghetti?"

He managed to relax at the nickname, which helped in unlocking the broken door. He hurried them up the stairs, saying, "We don't have time for me to shower now, but I at least need to fix my hair." He glanced over his shoulder at Richie and giggled. "Somebody else does, too. And I need to wash my face and brush my teeth."

"Gee, Anxiety Attack-"

"Stop stop stop, _what_?" Eddie interrupted as they stopped in front of his door. "What did you just call me?"

"Eddie Kaspbrak, Anxiety Attack... no? It doesn't work?" Richie asked.

"No, Trashmouth," he sighed, but grinned, as he slipped into his room and closed the door behind him. "It doesn't work."

Eddie could almost see Richie pouting. "You know what does work, though?"

He groaned, dropping his boxers and pulling on a pair of boxer briefs along with his shorts. "What?"

"That ass-"

Eddie swung the door open, his shirt nearly covering his shorts. "You're disgusting." He immediately closed the door and returned to changing.

Richie's voice carried into the room after him, "You were saying I was Mr. Clean 'Kills-Ninety-Nine-Point-Nine-Percent-Of-Bacteria' not fifteen minutes ago!" he whined while Eddie attempted to pull his shirt off over his cast.

"Richie, you're the point-one percent of bacteria that _isn't_ killed." He opened the door just a bit to peek his head through and smile at the tall boy leaning against the wall. "I'm not complaining."

Richie blew a kiss and Eddie pretended to gag before disappearing back into the room yet again to work the shirt off, find another, pull that one on, and tug on his socks and shoes. The final two tasks were infinitely more difficult with his dominant hand being covered mostly by a cast, but he's gotten better at functioning since he first left the hospital.

Opening the bedroom door for the last time that morning, he tossed Richie his backpack (which he had brought and dropped on the floor when he decided to throw himself in the room at midnight) and headed down the hall to the spotless bathroom. He emitted an audible whimper as his reflection came into view. His gaze had fallen particularly on his rat's-nest of hair, so he combed it out until it was neat enough for his taste.

Eddie brushed his teeth in a hurry, but upon looking up at the mirror, he spotted Richie. He'd changed into a Queen t-shirt, navy jeans, and a jean jacket with iron-on patches that were all either cheesy pick-up lines or awful puns. Eddie loved it. The geek was eyeing the shorter teenager with an amused grin from against the now-closed door.

"What?" Eddie snapped, accidentally spitting toothpaste foam on the mirror. He groaned in frustration and wiped it away with his thumb.

"Nothing, nothing," Richie replied ever-so innocently. "Just watching the show, my good sir." He clicked his tongue and winked.

Eddie scrutinized him for another second before spitting into the sink. "You're disgusting," he informed the tall teenager matter-of-factly.

Richie gasped in his overly-dramatized way of reeling back and grabbing at his chest as though he'd had a heart attack. "I thought I was the Mr. Clean to your SC Johnson Scrubbing Bubbles Bathroom Cleaner!"

Eddie nearly choked on mouth wash—luckily, he spat it out rather than swallowing it—as he cackled. "Beep-beep, Richie!"

"All right, my love," Richie huffed and snatched Eddie's comb, hiding his grin behind his hair.

The smaller boy only smiled and forced himself to ignore the nickname of sorts. "Your accent is _magnifique_ , 'British Guy'," he teased, standing on his tip-toes to mess up Richie's hair as he retrieved a rag to wipe his mouth.

"Eduardo!" Richie protested, readjusting his ebony curls with a pout. "You bully me, Kaspbrak."

Eddie leaned against the wall and rolled his eyes, watching Richie's reflection as he fixed his hair. He'd never really noticed the way Richie furrowed his eyebrows and scrunched his nose slightly when he was focused—probably because Richie Tozier was hardly ever _focused_ —but it was cute. It made Richie's thick glasses slide down his nose and Eddie's lips quirk into a tiny smile. "Dork," he whispered, snickering at the boy who had taken to staring him down via the mirror.

"What?" Richie inquired. "What did you _say_ , Eddie?" He chuckled dazedly as Eddie fell into a laughing fit.

"Nothing!" he squeaked, lifting his hands in surrender and taking backwards steps to reach the bathroom door. Once he was pressed against it, he smirked, and with a twist of the knob, he conceded, "Dork."

Richie gasped, but Eddie was already taking off down the steps and laughing maniacally on his way. He stopped at the front door to look up the steps, and when Richie stumbled into view, he giggled evilly, unlocked the door, and ran outside. Rushing to his bike, which was leaned against the side of the house a few feet away from where Richie had discarded his own, he had that feeling of ecstasy and freedom Richie Tozier had brought into his life that left him breathless.

He had to remember to thank him for that.

▼


	7. Home

▼

 **Eddie** **let out a heavy sigh** and bit his lip. He was already tired from school, and now he had to face his mother's wrath? It honestly felt like he was being singled out by Satan himself.

Despite his dread, he found himself rolling his bike to the side of his house like a boy in a horror movie creeping to his ultimate demise. Perhaps a basement, where anything could be lurking (for instance, a clown with a multitude of red balloons ensuring he'd float, yes he would, float with all of Derry's missing children).

He stepped up to the porch—

( _breathe_ —)

and pushed open the front door.

"Mommy?" he called.

There was a moment filled with eerie silence in which Eddie debated his fate, but soon enough Sonia Kaspbrak's wild cry sounded from the stairwell. "Eddie Bear!" she squalled, and he had less than a second to look up before he was being yanked into his house and squeezed in a suffocating embrace. His cast jabbed his side, making him wince into her chest. "I've got you this medicine, sweetie, for your _sickness_ , and-"

"What sickness, Mom?" Eddie interjected. " _Richie_? Mom, he's my _friend_ , we were just-"

" _I don't care_ , _Eddie_!" she snarled with wild eyes. Eddie shrank down fearfully, and she immediately softened and cupped his cheeks. " _Now_ ," she cooed, "look what you made me do. Scared my own boy. I didn't mean it that way, honey, but he hurt you, remember? He broke your arm and made you sick, and-"

Eddie's head pounded, and he squeezed his eyes shut to try to force out her words, because she was wrong, she was so, _so_ wrong; Richie had protected him. Richie was always there for him, he cared about him. She was feeding him bullshit. "No!" he interrupted with a shake of his head. "No, Mom, you've got it wrong, he's nice to me. He's... he's... Mom, _please_."

Sonia stared down at him, gripping his shoulders too tightly. "Eddie," she bit impatiently. "You're _sick_."

 _You're sick_. He was sick. Eddie Kaspbrak—sixteen; asthmatic; hypochondriac; best friends with _Richie 'Trashmouth' Tozier_ —was sick.

He took a shuddering breath and chewed his lip to suffocate the urge to bawl his eyes out. "Okay," he whispered. "Okay, Mama."

Eddie let her pull him to the kitchen and open the medicine cabinet and pull out pill bottle after pill bottle after pill bottle after pill bottle until he could taste the drugs, he could feel the acidic burn, and it felt like he was slipping into a drug-induced nap. But he was awake, and he downed _every single_ pill.

He found himself in his room, laying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Tears were slipping down his cheeks and wetting his curls. His lip trembled between his teeth. A ball of built-up sobs blockaded his esophagus so that it was hard for him to breathe. He figured he was having an asthma attack, but he didn't care enough to shoot off on his inhaler. He stared through the blur of his tears, waiting for the effects of the drugs to kick in so that he could just _sleep_.

He missed him. He wanted him. He needed him.

Richie Tozier was beautiful. He was absolutely gorgeous, especially his laugh and the way it crinkled his twinkling eyes behind his coca-cola bottle glasses, and the way his shoulders bounced, or that cheeky fucking grin he got when he was about to say something completely stupid to make Eddie laugh.

Eddie. _That_ was his name. It almost seemed like he'd forgotten his own name.

He was going numb.

His shoulders hurt.

He could hear the TV playing downstairs.

He could hear something hitting glass.

Something hitting glass?

Eddie rubbed the tears from his eyes and climbed out of his bed, nervously approaching his window. A smile tugged at his lips when he pulled the curtain back to peak outside; Richie, Stanley, and Bill were throwing clumps of dirt at his window. He giggled as he opened it. "What are you guys doing?" he asked with a brittle voice, and it had to be obvious he'd been crying, but the three boys didn't mention it as they beamed up at him, because they were good like that.

"We wanted to come see you!" Richie explained.

Stan snorted. "Richie wanted to come see you. Bill and I decided to come with even though you're a loser."

They were all losers, so Eddie knew it was lighthearted, but he couldn't be cheered up when he noticed a new bruise forming on Richie's cheek. He would ask him about it later.

Eddie bit his lip as he thought; he was _not_ going to jump out of that window to join them, but he definitely didn't want to risk them all being caught by his mother if he pulled them into his room, so jumping was probably the better decision. He wasn't even going to attempt climbing through the tree, and sneaking through the house was a definite _no_.

"Uh, Bill, are we gonna go to your house?" he asked.

Bill didn't even have to ask why before he was shrugging, "Y-y-yeah, sure." Bill was good like that.

So they weren't staying at Eddie's house, good, but how was he supposed to get to Bill's house? He wasn't climbing the tree, and he was hellbent on not jumping out of that window.

He shot off on his inhaler.

He was jumping out of that window.

"I swear to god if you fuckers don't catch me," he swore, climbing onto the window sill. Richie and Bill immediately moved closer. "One... two... three!"

Eddie pushed himself out of the window. Air whipped his hair wildly, and he was overwhelmed by an odd feeling of freedom. It only lasted for a couple seconds, though, and he made impact without any time to brace himself.

Opening his eyes slowly—he hadn't realized he'd closed them—he spotted Richie and Bill's awed expressions above him.

"Holy shit," Stan voiced, appearing next to them.

"I-I-I di-didn't think yuh-you were s-s-serious," Bill stuttered.

"You could've died, oh my god, I can't believe you did that, that was so cool! Fuck your cast hurt!" Richie ranted before snickering and adding, "You look like you just died and came back to life."

Eddie took a deep breath and laughed despite shuddering as he slipped out of his friends' arms. "I think I did."

▼

"Uno!" Eddie shouted, slamming his second to last card onto the pile clumsily with his left hand. It happened to be a reverse card, which prevented Richie from playing and instead returned the round to Bill, who had to draw way too many cards until he finally got a yellow.

"Eds!" Richie gasped. "I thought you cared about me!"

Eddie grinned. "I've fallen in love with another!" he exclaimed and attached himself to Bill's arm, who shook him off with a laugh.

Richie was eerily silent for Stan's turn due to his pouting, but as soon as it was his, he tossed a draw four and snapped, "Red."

Eddie gaped at him for a long second and only received a remorseless huff from Richie. "Rich! Come on, I- you can't just..." he whined despairingly. After he'd drawn four, he mumbled, "I might have drawn four, but you're a four out of ten." When Richie snorted, Eddie smiled and whispered so that only they could hear, "Four and a half."

Richie giggled and slid his glasses up, winking at Eddie, "I might be a four and a half, but your mom estimated that I was _six_ and half... _inches_." He shot finger guns and wiggled his eyebrows at Eddie, who folded his arms with a grin.

"Six and a half inches deep in bullshit, maybe."

Richie chuckled and said, "Don't talk about your mom like that, Eddo Spagheddo."

"You'd really stoop that low?"

"I'd stoop low enough to give you a high-five, short stuff," Richie teased.

Before Eddie could make a sharp remark to crush all of Richie's hopes and dreams, Stan interrupted, "Richie! Quit telling Eddie how hard you fucked his mom last night or whatever and play the game!"

Richie and Eddie's eyes went wide and they glanced between each other awkwardly.

"Stan the Man, you really know how to give a guy the blues," Richie informed him with a smirk. "If you know what I mean." He lazily flipped a blue four onto the previous red four for emphasis.

Stan, Bill, and Eddie all harmonized a frustrated groan at Richie's god-awful sense of humor. Eddie placed a green four on Richie's blue one and ignored Richie's pestering comments throughout the rest of the game despite the longing for Richie to give him attention.

Being able to spend quality time with friends other than Richie was something of a relief; Richie was fun—more than just fun, if Eddie was honest—but sometimes it felt like he only ever spent time with Richie even when they were with the Losers. Almost in spite of that fact, Eddie had a strange craving for Richie's attention. It was especially nice to be with Bill, though, whose optimistic and relaxed attitude calmed Eddie down just as much as Richie's endless dirty jokes.

Reassurance and Richie Tozier seemed to be the only things that could help Eddie to be less afraid of leaving his comfort zone, so he was grateful for Bill, Richie, Mike, and even Ben. Stan and Beverly were too chaotic and ill-tempered, but he supposed that meant they were too much like him; Stan was too nervous and edgy, and Beverly was too edgy and fiery. They were still his friends, but not as closely as the others.

They played Uno together until Sharon knocked on the door and politely informed them of Eddie's demise.

Sonia was outside, demanding for them to tell her where Eddie was.

Richie was the one to give him that look; the one that asked all the questions he couldn't answer.

Was he going to be okay?

Did he have his inhaler? Would he _need_ his inhaler?

Should Richie fuck some sense into her?

"Thank you, Mrs. Denbrough," Eddie mumbled, his eyes locking onto the floor and his fingers picking at their nails. She pursed her lips in concern, but nodded and walked away despite her worries, and Eddie felt any hope he had leaving with her. "I guess we got caught."

Bill and Stan both offered sympathetic glances, but Richie was empathetic; he knew how bad it could get, how bad it had gotten, and especially _why_ it had gotten so bad, but he didn't say anything. He would later, of course, and he would worry his pretty head off about it until he did, but he wasn't going to mention anything about it unless Eddie explicitly wanted anyone else to know.

Eddie said his goodbyes and left, allowing Sonia to whine his ears off the entire drive home. He was too caught up in the feeling he'd forgotten to tell Richie something important to focus on her six-and-a-half-inch-deep bullshit.

▼

Richie stared up at the house he'd lived in his entire life and asked himself if he'd ever actually _lived_ in the damn thing; if anything, he had died the moment he'd been carried through the door as a baby.

He breathed heavily and pushed the door open. Almost immediately, the sound of screams shot into his ears and the smell of cheap liquor wafted into his nostrils. With the adept of someone who's been sneaking around all his life, Richie gingerly stepped into the house and soundlessly closed the door. They were in the kitchen, which meant they had access to knives, plates, whatever they needed for whatever they wanted to do to anyone they wanted. That also meant that he had three rooms' distance and their screaming to muffle any sounds he made, but no doors; those had been punched through too many times, and some had been taken off their hinges.

Richie pulled his shoes off and carried them with him up the stairs; each step was deliberate and cautious, but they were softened due to his socks. He trailed down the hall, avoiding each spot on the floor that he knew to creak until he was pressed against the wall next to his bedroom door. The door was the loudest in the house, but if he opened it quickly, he knew he had a chance of it not squeaking. He twisted the knob laboriously, and as soon as it clicked, he shoved it open.

A deafening shriek from the hinges paralyzed him in place.

The yelling stopped.

As soon as he heard footsteps approaching the stairs, he rushed into the room and stuffed himself into his closet, closing the door that was _actually_ quiet.

The footsteps grew louder and louder, until they stopped in the middle of Richie's room. He held his breath, but it wasn't enough; the doorknob began to twist, and all he could do was attempt to make himself smaller as the door swung open. He blinked away his tears and felt himself go lightheaded, all for nothing.

"Get out of that closet, boy," Wentworth demanded. "Get up!"

Richie scrambled to his feet and stumbled past Wentworth, but he'd accidentally slammed his shoulder into the man on his way. He tripped and fell on his ass. Richie's heart raced when his father turned around. Wentworth's shoulders were tense and his face was screwed in rage. Chills ran up Richie's spine.

"I have to put up with that _slut_ ," he spat and prowled toward Richie. The fallen boy crawled backwards in sheer terror. "And I have to put up with your _shit_. I didn't fucking ask for you, and I sure as hell didn't ask to be disrespected in my own goddamn house!"

By then, he was towering over Richie and had managed to back him into a corner. "Quit crying, god damn it! What are you, a queer? You a fucking faggot? Get off your fucking ass, you little bitch!"

Richie pushed himself off the floor and slid up the wall. He could feel himself trembling, but he tried to ignore the fear. If he didn't look like a weak little boy, he wouldn't get beaten as badly as one.

"I've seen you running around with those cocksuckers and that _whore_ ," Wentworth snarled.

He was inches from Richie's face. With every menacing word, spit covered the mortified boy's face. The man's intoxicated breath gave Richie a headache.

"You and your fucking queers, you're all fuck ups. That fucking fairy you like so much, he make you like this? Answer me, Richard!" he screamed.

Richie was almost relieved when the man drew back, only to realize he was moving away to hit him harder.

He didn't even try to brace himself for the knuckles driving into his cheekbone and slamming his head against the wall. He lolled forward. He was only knocked back again. And again. And eventually Wentworth's enraged yelling was drowned out by the ringing in Richie's ears.

Warm blood dripped down his face. He figured there were tears in the mix, too.

Richie wasn't sure when he ended up back on the floor, or when the punching and kicking and screaming stopped. One moment, harsh sobs wracked his body along with maddened fists and boots. The next, he felt like he'd walked through the middle of a war and woken up weeks later in a shitty foreign hospital.

Richie picked himself off the ground and limped to the bathroom to find his mother fixing her makeup. Tears darkened by mascara smeared down her rosy cheeks. They didn't speak, instead standing next to each other and eyeing themselves in the mirror. Both had been bruised by her husband and his father. Both had been crying. Both were completely aware of the other's shaky breaths and need for comfort. They stayed at least three inches apart.

Richie dug through the cabinets above the mirror, rummaging for band-aids, rubbing alcohol, and cotton balls. He wiped off the spit and tears and cleaned the blood from his lips and cheeks where his skin had split under Wentworth's relentless beating.

"I'm sorry," Maggie whispered. Her voice was soft, and it wavered slightly as though she was about to start crying again. "I'm sorry, Richie. I'm so, so sorry."

Richie knew she was. She was sorry she didn't leave the man who neglected them and yelled and them and beat them, the man who had probably done things to her she didn't consent to, the man who cheated and drank and smoked and she was sorry _she_ was covered in bruises. She was sorry that she let this happen to _herself_. She was sorry Richie got involved, but she was sorry that _she_ was being hurt, and she was probably sorry she hadn't thrown herself down the stairs when she was pregnant with him, because maybe Wentworth would still love her if Richie wasn't born. Maybe they would be happy if Richie never existed.

He smiled, which pulled apart the bust in his lip, but he didn't care. "Sorry, sorry... everybody's fucking sorry."

Maggie gazed at him in the mirror despondently, and he stared back with a stony glare.

"Richie, please..."

"You know you're _just_ as bad as him," Richie bit. "You _cheat_ , you _yell_ , you hit me, and fuck, you might be _worse_ , because you do shit like this! And you... you try to suck up to me, and try to make things better. You can't fucking do that! You can't talk to me like you're... you're sorry! You don't even try to fix this, you... you're still with him, you haven't even divorced. The least you could do is fucking go to the cops, or kick him out, something! But you just let it happen."

He closed his eyes and let himself breathe. When he blinked back into the mirror, his fixation was more emotional. "You're not sorry. You're just scared. You want to be close to someone because he's pushed everyone who cared about you away. You want a family. Not this." He glanced between their reflections, seeing the faint bruises under all her concealer, and the blood slipping from his lip. "You want something you can't have until you've fixed this, but you don't know how to."

Richie stared her down, the wet anger beginning to trickle into his self-hatred. He had to leave before he broke down in front of her and she mocked him for being a little bitch. "And I can't fucking help you."

He put away his supplies with shaky hands, trying to get out of that bathroom, out of that suffocating house, as fast as possible. He closed the cabinet, glanced at his reflection once, and turned away. Before he knew it, he was pedaling away from the house, teardrops rolling off his cheeks with the breeze. Subconsciously, he knew where he was going, but he didn't entirely realize it until he was looking up at the arcade.

He hadn't been to the arcade since he got called a faggot by Henry Bowers.

Since the night he was followed to that football field.

Since the night he met Eddie Kaspbrak.

Richie slid his glasses up his nose and pushed the glass door open.

▼


	8. Sweater Weather

▼

**Eddie didn't have his bike.**

Today was the day he had gotten his cast off, which meant he was late to school, which meant he didn't have his bike. When Eddie didn't have his bike to ride home from school with, things always seemed to go wrong, and the day had already been awful; Richie was, for the most part, avoiding him. They only really talked during lunch, because they were with Stan and Bill, but Richie had left immediately afterwards.

Something was wrong.

Was it Eddie?

Maybe Richie was angry with him, because they didn't ride to school together. Or maybe Eddie was being too annoying. Was it the cast? No, that wouldn't even make sense.

Eddie sighed—it was cold, but not cold enough for the breath to be visible—gripped the straps of his backpack, and began his trek to the star-crossed football field.

As soon as he reached the top of the hill that viewed over the field, his heart dropped.

Of course.

Agonizing familiarity struck through him like lightning through a raging storm as he watched Henry and his substandard flock of grimy zealots shove Richie around and cackle madly. Richie already looked half-dead—stumbling around, not even bothering to fight back.

For no visible reason, Henry hooked Richie in the jaw. He collapsed. It didn't seem like he had the willpower to get back up or even try to defend himself, but still, they kicked him senseless.

Eddie bristled when he heard Richie cry out.

It was fragile and heartbreaking, like the whimper of a hurt puppy, and it sounded like "stop."

Protective instincts kicked into gear, Eddie dropped his bookbag to the ground and stumbled down the hill towards the group. With all the built up energy, he barreled himself into Henry Bowers, who collided with Belch. The two of them collapsed in a heap on the grass, and Eddie took to beating them the way they beat him and Richie and their friends.

 _They_ were the ones who broke his arm.

 _They_ were the reason the Losers split apart.

 _They_ were the reason Sonia had manipulated him into thinking that Richie Tozier could _ever_ hurt him the way they did.

Eddie kicked them as hard as he could. He tried to inflict as much pain as they'd caused Richie. Eventually he was dragged away, but he kept fighting. He thrashed and yanked in his captor's grip until they released him, and when he turned to face Patrick Hockstetter, he wasn't fazed in the slightest. With a furious shout, he kicked him in the groin. Hockstetter collapsed to his knees, chuckling despite the veins popping out of his head and his neck. Eddie stepped away in disgust.

He turned to stare down Victor and the other two boys. He held a little more sympathy for them, but only a little. They were standing over Richie's shaking body, glaring daggers into Eddie with malice bubbling behind their eyes, waiting for the signal to strike. "Touch him again, and so help me, I'll fucking-"

"What are you gonna do, fairy?" Henry asked from behind him.

Eddie whipped around. As his terrified eyes met Henry's crazed ones, he found himself stumbling backwards. He could see every intention of harm in Henry's bunched shoulders, his wicked grin, the way he prowled forward. The adolescent seemed almost delighted by Eddie's terror.

"Huh? You gonna beat us, Pretty Boy?" Eddie heard a _click!_ , saw a flash of silver in Henry's hand, and the wicked grin split even further across his face. Eddie shuddered, his breath coming in shorter gasps.

"Henry?" Victor voiced nervously. "He's tweaking out, Henry... Maybe we should-"

"Shut up!" Henry barked. Eddie flinched, his hands coming up to protect his face. He almost expected Henry to start foaming at the mouth, to see his eyes roll back as he cackled. "I'm gonna fucking kill this faggot!"

Eddie tripped over something and fell to the ground. He tried to crawl backwards, to get away, but he was more vulnerable, and Henry took his opportunity and pounced.

The psychopath straddled Eddie and started yelling in his face, but Eddie couldn't hear. The ringing in his ears grew louder and louder, and he wasn't aware of anything but the deafening sound.

Eddie was screaming and crying and kicking and punching, but Henry was on him, and he felt something akin to death creeping up his spine.

"Please!" he wailed, the cry ripping through his body and coming out hoarse and animalistic in its fear. "Please get off of me, leave me _alone_!"

Something was stinging as though he'd been burned, and maybe he had been; maybe Patrick or Belch or even Victor had a cigarette and had put it out on him, but he couldn't focus enough to find where the burning was from, so he could only cry out in agony.

" _Please_ , Henry, I'll- I'll leave you alone, just _please_ -" He screamed as his wrist—he could tell it was his wrist now—was lit up with a cold, searing pain. "God- _god_ stop, _please_ , _please_! Help!" He struggled against Henry, kicking and punching. " _Stop_! Stop _it_! Get _off_ of me! Ow, oh god, stop! Please!"

Laughter. He could hear _laughter_ over the ringing.

They were going to kill him.

He wailed pitifully, his voice slowly giving out, but the pain only stretched up his arm and grew from his lungs. "Stop! Stop. Stop... stop... please..."

Eddie wished he could faint. He wanted to go unconscious and not feel.

But the pricking sting had stopped spreading. It was numbing. The feeling of being crushed had abandoned him. His breaths came in heavy wheezes and he tried to get control of himself instead of opening his eyes; he didn't want to know what he'd see.

"Eddie!" someone called. It was a quiet, far away sound—too gentle to be Henry—but he still screamed.

"No! No _please_ , no more, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please don't hurt me, please..."

"No, Eddie, no, it's okay, it's us! It's me, Mike. Are you alright?"

Eddie opened his eyes slowly despite his anxiety, and let out a sigh of relief as his gaze met Mike, and the rest of the Losers in his peripheral. "It hurts, Mike. It hurts..."

Mike looked down and gasped. "Eddie, your wrist..."

His eyelids fell shut and he breathed, "I don't want to know."

"Guys!" Mike called. "Eddie's hurt bad!"

Eddie could hear footsteps surround them and he tensed up.

"Th-th-that b-bah-stard." Bill.

"Eddie- oh god..." Beverly.

" _Eds_." Richie. _Richie_.

Eddie's eyes shot back open and he shifted around, desperate to find Richie. "Rich?" A gentle hand prodded his arm, and Eddie directed his attention over to find Richie's carefree smile, but it was busted and bloody and befouled. " _Richie_."

"Hey, Spaghetti. They really fucked us up, huh?"

Eddie ignored the remark and continued examining Richie. He was bruised and bleeding worse than Eddie thought he could take (in hindsight, Eddie was a lot worse off). "I'm going to fucking kill him, mark my words."

"Mark something else, too," Richie exasperated, reaching out cautiously to hold Eddie's hand. His face wrinkled with all the worst emotions; fear, anger, worry, and pain. Richie was in pain just seeing Eddie's arm and what had been done to it. "That inbred, shitfaced, numb-nut fucking psychopath... I'm going to send that mullet-wearing asshole to hell."

Eddie snorted and wiped away a few stray tears of his own. The agony was still there, throbbing and thrashing every time he moved his arm, and with each zap of pain, the urge to see what was killing him grew. What had Henry carved into Eddie's flesh? What twisted, gnarly scars would be added to the collection of scars and scuffs on his limbs from Henry's wrath?

With the comfort of Richie's touch, he willed himself to look at his wrist.

As soon as his brain processed what his eyes were seeing, he gagged and averted his eyes.

Henry had managed to carve his entire name into Eddie's arm.

Once he'd seen Mike, once he'd known Richie was safe and he wasn't going to get mauled again, his asthma had calmed. His breaths were still shallow and hurtful, but he wasn't on the verge of unconsciousness. Now that he'd seen what Henry had done to him, it kicked back up.

"My- my mom- my mom's gonna kill me. And- and th- and then- then H-H-Hen-r-ry." He hid his face in his hands and rocked himself back and forth. If he didn't bleed out then and there, his mom would put him in the hospital and keep him there for a week, even if they did all the tests they could on him and it all turned out fine. He'd be surrounded by sickness and then put on more pills and made to stay in his room for days if not weeks and he'd be yelled at, god how badly he'd be yelled at, and she'd start crying and blubbering about how worried she is about him to make him feel bad, and-

"If it makes you feel any better," Richie began, rubbing his hand up and down Eddie's back, and of course Eddie already felt better, "at least Henry will be dead!"

Eddie snorted through his tears. "You're a fucking idiot. I'm gonna bleed out in the arms of a fucking idiot." And suddenly, as a hot trail of blood seeped down his arm, he realized that he very much could die. Henry's knife could've been rusted, and he could've cut an artery, and- Eddie jolted upright. "I'm gonna fucking bleed out, Richie! I- I need to go to the hospital or- but I can't, because my mom- _fuck_."

He eyed his arm nervously. "Okay- okay, alright, _rationally_ , panicking and getting my heart rate up will probably make me bleed more. I think. I've gotta- I've gotta stop the bleeding." He took a few deep breaths and got to work. He made Richie hold gauze sponges against the cuts while he dug through his fanny pack for antibiotic cream and bandages. He had a water bottle in his bag that had been in there for a few days, and Beverly was kind enough to retrieve it.

As they waited on Beverly to jog back with his bag, Eddie watched blood drench the sponges and continue slipping down his arm. He was almost nauseous and probably on the verge of fainting, but the fear of doing either of those things seemed to be keeping him going. "I know you don't want to," Eddie began, "but I'm gonna need you to press down harder than that, Richie. It's gonna hurt me, but it can't hurt more than what's already been done."

Richie gave him a kicked puppy look, but nodded and pressed down only a fraction harder. "Okay."

Eddie huffed, but he was smiling. "That's sweet and all, 'Chee, but I'm bleeding out-"

Richie pressed down only a little harder, but it sent a painful shudder up his arm that made him hiss.

"A-alr-right," Eddie breathed, trying to keep from worrying Richie. "Hold it there."

Beverly was back soon enough, giving the water bottle to Eddie and sitting next to Richie. "What's the diagnosis, doc? Is he gonna live?"

"Well, darlin'," Richie started. Eddie scoffed at the terrible southern accent, and Richie smiled. "Somethin' tells me he's gonna be alright. Just a coupl'a cuts, s'all. Give it a few weeks and he'll barely have scars, I say."

Eddie snorted while Beverly just nodded with an, "Ah, I see, I see."

He removed Richie's hand and started rinsing the cuts with water. The amount of red that flooded the ground in front of him was enough to keep him from watching. 

He wiped away the water on his arm, avoiding the cuts, and gingerly applied antibiotic cream.

"Damn, you could be a doctor when you're older, Eds," Richie commented, peering at his arm curiously.

"Yeah, probably. I don't want to though."

Richie hummed. "What, then?"

Eddie pondered it for a moment. "I don't know, really. What about you?"

"A comedian, duh," he answered.

Eddie grinned at the thought. "Yeah, and you could practice all your shitty jokes on me. If I laugh, you know it's a good one."

"Yeah. I could give you the best chucks of your life, Spaghetti Man."

Eddie didn't even have to think about it before he nodded, because Richie could; he already had. Richie made Eddie laugh more than anybody else. "You could. How about you, Bev? What do you wanna be?"

Beverly looked up at Eddie, giving him a look like she wasn't quite sure he meant to ask for her input. "Um... I guess I... I don't really know. Uh... I guess I could play the piano?"

Eddie hummed, grabbing a roll of gauze and starting to wrap up the cuts. "I've always liked piano, but I don't have a clue as to how to play it," he said, huffing out his nose, and looked back to Beverly with a warm smile. "You know how?"

Beverly smiled back. "Yeah, my ma taught me how to before she passed." Her smile faltered for a second, her eyebrows pinched as she glanced away. Then she was back to smiling at Eddie, but it was a sadder smile now.

"That's cool," Eddie told her as he tore his piece of gauze from the rest. He used medical tape to tape it down, and then he was done. "Now, onto you," Eddie muttered, turning to face Richie. Slowly, he reached up and pulled Richie down by his face. Richie didn't flinch, thankfully, but he didn't let his eyes stray from Eddie's hands, either.

He made all of his movements slow and precise as he wiped the blood off of Richie's face and applied ointment to the several open cuts. Every time he and Richie made eye contact, Richie would make a face, and Eddie would giggle under his breath and look away. Eddie wasn't sure how he ever survived without this idiot, even if it was only for a month or so.

"How did you guys know to come help us, anyway?" Richie asked when there was a lull in conversation.

Stan was the one to answer, explaining, "Mike was going home from his meat delivery job and he heard Eddie yelling, so he called all of us. We showed up and scared them off." He grinned.

Eddie nodded, smiling at Stan's satisfaction and the way the conversation lit up again. "Hey, Rich?" he mumbled so that the Losers couldn't hear. By then he was done with fixing Richie's face, and so he busied himself with stuffing his things in his bag to avoid looking Richie in the eye. "Why... why were you avoiding me today?"

"Because I have a gift for you!" Eddie looked up at him, absolutely bewildered. "For getting your cast taken off and all," he elaborated excitedly, but the eagerness was short-lived and a frown was quick to pull down his grin. "Bowers probably destroyed it or something, but I was carrying it around all day because, well, you know I forgot my locker number, and I couldn't put it in my bag because it would get wrinkled, and I know you hate wrinkles, so I put it in a box! I had to avoid you, though, 'cause I didn't want you to see it and get all nosy like you do," he teased.

Eddie rolled his eyes despite the flattered smile tugging at his pink cheeks. "That's nice, Rich. Thank you."

Richie hummed. "It's nothing, Spaghet. He might not have taken it, I don't really see why he would, but..."

Eddie followed Richie's gaze to a large box laying further away in the field along with Richie's bag.

"If I go get it, promise not to run off to Bill or Mike?" Richie joked, earning himself a soft smack to his chest.

" _Yes_ , Rich."

Eddie sat up and allowed Richie to get up and bound over to the box. He watched him go, glancing away when he bent down to pick it up, and giggled when the tall boy returned as a heaving mess. "Exercise fucking sucks."

"You know what _else_ sucks," Eddie said before he could stop himself, and he and Richie both froze before bursting into laughter. "Oh god, I did not just say that," he groaned, pressing his hand against his forehead. "Stop _laughing_! That's disgusting! I can't believe I said that, I'm literally turning into you."

"How's it feel, Eds?" he insinuated with a wink, and Eddie shoved his shoulder to hide his reddening ears.

"I can't stand you," he snapped back.

"Probably why you were practically laying in my lap earlier," Richie commented with a bite of his lip and a wiggle of his eyebrows, and Eddie didn't think he could be embarrassed any worse than he was when he was with Richie Tozier. He loved it.

He opened his mouth to reprimand Richie, but he couldn't think of anything to say. "This doesn't mean you're right, fucker," Eddie bit.

Richie nodded in mock-acceptance and disdain. "You're absolutely right, my love..." He shook off the front and thrust the box towards Eddie. "Now, open!"

Eddie took it from him and slowly opened it.

He wasn't exactly sure how to feel about what was inside.

Richie had given Eddie a sweater.

"I found it in my closet and figured it would look-" there was a flash of hesitance then, as though he hadn't meant to say that, but he pinched Eddie's cheeks and continued playfully, "Cute, cute, _cute_!"

"Quit it, Richie!" Eddie whined, pushing away the boy's arms. Richie always knew the right way to irritate him, but if Eddie was honest, he kind of liked it, too.

Once he had calmed from his hysterics, Eddie gazed fondly up at Richie.

Richie smiled at him (the way Ben smiles when Beverly complements him), scratching the back of his neck. "And I figured, since your cast is off now, you'll wanna get back into your sweaters. Sweater weather, and all."

"It's March," Stanley put in, but Eddie barely heard him over his own thoughts.

Too many emotions were running through his mind to form proper sentences.

One thing bearing down on his psyche—something he desperately wanted to ignore—was the impossibly strong urge to kiss Richie Tozier.

Even the concept summoned the image of his mother screaming about AIDs and all the diseases being gay would cause, and it made him want to puke and cry and scream.

It didn't help that he was staring at Richie's face, and Richie was staring at his, and god, the way his hair fluttered when the breeze picked up, and the way the sun caught in his eyes behind his glasses (which were barely hanging onto his nose with all the tape around the bridge and the bandage Eddie had put on him), and his hand on Eddie's ankle-

He was staring. He was definitely staring. He glanced away, and his gaze landed on Beverly, then Bill, and Stanley and Mike and Ben; they had seen him. They knew. They knew he thought disgusting thoughts about Richie and other boys, and he felt his throat tightening as he averted his eyes to the sweater in his hands. He had to say something, get it out, stop the itching in his throat and the burning in his flickering eyes.

"Um, I- thank you, Richie. Really, thank you, this is... wow. Thank you."

Richie's face fell. "You hate it."

"No!" Eddie mended quickly. "No, no, I just don't know what to say, this is so nice. You really thought about this? F-ff-for me?"

His stomach plummeted as the urge failed to leave his mind and instead forced itself to the forefront of his thoughts, demanding his attention and energy. Eddie wanted to kiss Richie Tozier. He wanted to throw his arms around Richie Tozier and kiss him everywhere he could, but he couldn't, because that was _gay_ and it was _sick_.

Eddie was _sick_.

"You really like it?" Richie asked, as if he'd been assuming Eddie would hate it all day.

Eddie smiled nervously but genuinely. "Yeah. I really like it, Trashmouth."

It felt like he was admitting more than just appreciation of a gift.

He was _sick_ and he was terrified.

His mother was going to kill him. She was going to set him on fire, but not in the way Richie did. Richie made him feel warm and comfortable and made his heart beat and his shoulders bounce with laughter.

She was going to tie him to a stake and fucking _burn_ him. Or worse; she would hurt Richie. Carefree, dirty, funny, witty, pretty, handsome Richie. All because of a few butterflies and the completely guilty mental images of Eddie Kaspbrak's. All because Eddie was the _real_ dirty one.

"It's really late," Eddie pointed out, glancing up at the ever-darkening sky. "I should get home before my mom has a fucking aneurysm." He shuddered at the bitter taste of pills that came to mind.

Richie bit his lip. "I'll walk with you?" he offered. "Like we did the first time we really met, remember?" The two boys smiled at the memory. "Oh, deja vu!" Richie exclaimed in a Voice, dramatically leaning against Eddie.

Eddie readily assumed every day of his life would be filled with deja vu; if he really was _gay_ , he would be beaten frequently, and maybe Richie could take care of him when he couldn't help himself because he was in such bad shape, and they could live together, and maybe have a few dogs, and Sonia wouldn't be able to bother them because they would move out of Derry. They could move to the country, or to a bigger city if Richie wanted; Eddie wouldn't mind as long as it was a clean, low-crime place—in fact, Eddie wasn't sure he would mind going anywhere as long as he was with Richie Tozier.

However, Eddie was still terrified for the both of them.

He always would be.

Eddie didn't think there had ever been a point in his life when he _wasn't_ scared, but once he really thought about it, he realized there was.

When he was with Richie the night when they'd stayed at his house together. He was scared at first, because Richie was being a loud dumbass, but as soon as he and Richie were comfortable together, he was calm. He was relaxed. He was with Richie.

And then he decided to bring up being gay.

It had made both of them uncomfortable, and it had terrified Eddie to his core.

Richie Tozier was the problem and the solution in Eddie's life, it seemed.

At least Eddie wasn't _actually_ gay; these were just thoughts everybody had, right? Everybody wanted to grow old with their best friend. Their _boy_ best friend. And raise dogs together and live together.

Right?

He decided he would ask Bill or Mike, or maybe Stan, or even Ben. Not Richie, though, nor Beverly.

"Yeah," Eddie answered after a long pause. "Yeah, walk with me."

What was he getting himself into? How deep had they dug Eddie's grave so far?

"Hey, where are you guys going?" Beverly asked as they stood up together.

Eddie found himself holding the gift box to his chest subconsciously while Richie wrapped his arm around his shoulder. "Spaghetti and I are gonna head out. Gotta get back to the missus, she and I have... _unfinished business_." Richie made a crude gesture, and Eddie scoffed.

It only took a short amount of sulking between the other Losers for Bill to speak up, stuttering, "Hh-hey, Eddie, I-I-I know you p-p-probably d-don't- don't w-want to, but y-y- you could a-ask your mom i-if you could c-c-c-c... _shit_." He narrowed his eyes and punched his thigh, prompting Stan, Beverly, and Mike to reach for his arms and hold on to him. They chuckled when they noticed each other. "I-if you and th-the L-L-Losers could c-come o-o-over."

A smile tugged Eddie's cheeks up so high it hurt. "Yeah, I will. Rich?"

Richie quirked an eyebrow, and without missing a beat, he smirked and said, "I'll come for you, Eds."

"I'll come for your _fucking throat_ if you don't stop being gross," Eddie snarled with a sharp glare. The tips of his ears were burning bright red, but he ignored that.

" _Kinky_."

" _Richie_!" Eddie complained and threw the gangling boy's arm off of him with a gentle shove. He folded his arms indignantly when Richie laughed. "That's so messed up," he mumbled.

After a little more bickering and Stan's intervention ("If you two don't shut the fuck up and go fuck Eddie's mom or whatever I will _choke_ you"), the two finally embarked on their adventure to hell.

They were blanketed by a comfortable silence for a few blocks, the two of them walking side by side closer than necessary, until Richie knocked his shoulder into Eddie's, which inevitably made the smaller boy stumble to the side. His harsh glare aimed at the perpetrator didn't hold for very long; his frustration was smothered as soon as his eyes settled on Richie mid-laugh.

Richie Tozier had to be the most beautiful sixteen-year-old idiot Eddie had ever seen.

 _Disgusting_.

Pushing Richie back, Eddie couldn't help giggling with him. "What the hell are _you_ laughing at?" he quipped.

"You get so ticked off so fast," Richie clarified through child-like chortling. "'Tis truly precious."

Eddie rolled his eyes. "Yeah, and you get all _giggly_ real fast. It's..." he paused pensively, and thought about it. Yeah, Richie's laughter was precious. Was he gonna say that? Fuck no. "It's nice." He didn't have to elaborate; Richie knew well enough.

The pair continued their walk, mumbling the random thoughts crossing their mind, and they nearly passed Eddie's house because of the irenic haven they had built around each other. They would have passed Eddie's house if the very sight of it didn't send chills down Eddie's spine.

"I'll... I'll go in. If I'm not out in ten minutes, knock on my window," he said, eyeing the house nervously.

"Aye aye, captain!" Richie saluted, and Eddie couldn't keep himself from dragging Richie into a one-armed hug; his other arm held the box.

Smiling into the boy's button up, he figured that living with this moron wouldn't be too bad. Then he was pulling away and crouching to open the box and tug out the sweater. Originally, the plan was to cover the bandages, but as soon as he tugged it on, stood up, and stretched out the wrinkles, he came to the conclusion that he would wear it more often than not. He beamed up at Richie. "I love this, Rich! Thank you."

Richie had his hands over his mouth and his eyes were darting over Eddie's body, making the tiny boy somewhat self-conscious; his shorts barely peeked out from the hem of the sweater, and the sleeves hung down over his palms when they were stretched out all the way. It was like Richie was constantly hugging him, and he couldn't ask for much more, but he somehow felt more exposed.

Feeling exposed around Richie wasn't all too bad; if anything, Richie would make some weird flirtatious joke that gave Eddie inexplicable goosebumps.

"Not a problem at _all_ , Eddie Spaghetti," Richie teased, shooting finger guns at him and wiggling his eyebrows.

Eddie ignored the butterflies in his belly and pretended to scoff.

 _Disgusting_.

"You're disgusting," he informed Richie. It was a transparent lie, but it made Eddie feel awfully better about his own disgusting emotions.

Richie winked. "Whatever you say, Spaghedward."

Eddie rolled his eyes and muttered, "I hate that." The smile was still on his face, however, even as he walked up to the house. Once he was faced with the door, however, he turned around in need of reassurance, and found it in Richie pestering a couple. "Got any change for a homeless child? You'll go to hell if you're not a good citizen!" The woman tossed a few quarters at him before dragging the man away. Eddie giggled, and then he was pushing open the door and calling, "Mama?"

"Eddie Bear? I'm in here, sweetie!" she responded from the living room, and Eddie hurried in. "What is it, dear? Have you taken your pills? Where did you get that sweater? I didn't buy it for you, did I? Come here to mommy, baby."

Eddie reluctantly stepped up to her recliner and kissed her cheek. "You know Bill Denbrough? The nice boy, Sharon and Zack Denbrough's kid? Can I go over to his house for a sleepover? Before you say anything, I have my pills and my first-aid kit, and I'll call you if anything happens, and their house is really clean, and you can call whenever to check on me." He offered her his most innocent smile.

Sonia was only able to try to come up with a reason for him not to go for a few seconds until she sighed and gave in. "Alright, but Eddie Bear, you have to call me, okay? And don't go playing too rough outside, you know how bad your allergies and your asthma can get. Okay?"

Eddie beamed, "Yeah, okay! Thank you, mama!" Then he was pecking her cheek and rushing upstairs to pack for the weekend, entirely ignoring a warning from his mother about running up the stairs.

When he threw his bedroom door open, his eyes first landed on Richie Tozier picking himself off the floor and pushing his glasses up his nose, then the open window.

"I was gone for two minutes, Richie," Eddie exasperated after closing his door. He smiled nonetheless as Richie grinned cheekily at him.

"Yeah," he began, "but I can't live without you, Eddie Spaghetti!"

Eddie folded his arms and cocked an eyebrow. "Uh _huh_."

Richie chuckled, dusting off his pants, and winked. "Mhm, I heard blue balls can kill a guy."

Eddie's eyebrows shot up and he tensed. "What the ever-loving fuck is wrong with you?" he groaned, rubbing a hand down the side of his face. "You're revolting."

"That's not what your mom said last night," Richie snickered.

"Maybe not, but that's what your dad told me while I fucked him in the ass," Eddie fired back, yanking the door to his closet open.

Irony.

▼

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for taking so long to update again! I haven't been very motivated to edit recently, but I'll try my hardest to catch up with updates this week. Thank you for all the love and patience!


	9. In Which Henry Bowers Fucks Everything Up: The Sequel

▼

**It started with Mike's dog.**

No, it started long before Henry poisoned Mr. Chips.

It started with the first child Henry bullied. The first kid, maybe just starting kindergarten, maybe tiny and scared and vulnerable. Maybe Henry was their age, maybe he was disturbingly older. Maybe he insulted their outfit, or their hair, or the way they laughed, or maybe he said the most hurtful thing he could think of.

Maybe he called them a Nancy boy, or a bulldyke, or a flamer, or the 40's greatest hits, or a the cookie monster, or a scratched record, or any racist remark he could come up with. Any one of the Losers could've been the first victim to Henry's serious mental issues, or it could have very well been someone none of them knew.

Whatever the specifics were, it sparked a chain reaction that led to Mike's dog, Mr. Chips, being poisoned, and the other Losers weren't having any of it; they were all conspiring about the best strategies to kicking Henry's ass.

That's how the seven teenagers found themselves biking by Henry's house, making sure he knew they were there (as in, Richie and Beverly _loudly_ insulting Henry back and forth like wolves howling with each other). They passed the farm, and they could all tell their plan worked by the crawling feeling along their spines and up their necks.

“You guys feel like we’re being stalked, too, right?” Stanley asked, glancing at Bill and Mike.

The other Losers mumbled their agreement, but they continued on their way to the Barrens.

Richie rolled past Eddie on his bike, casting an enamoring beam Eddie's way. The enchanted boy nearly slipped off of his bike. He regained control about as easily as one would trying to catch a bar of soap in the bathtub, and when he looked back up, Richie was nonchalantly biking next to Beverly, and Eddie's ears were burning with embarrassment.

"Are you _ever_ going to tell him?" Stanley asked, appearing next to, and scaring the life out of, Eddie.

"Jesus, Stan!" he exclaimed, his entire face heating up when Richie looked back at him. Eddie turned away, instead eyeing Stan. " _What_ are you talking about?"

Stan rolled his eyes and motioned to Richie. " _Him_!"

"What about _him_?" Eddie mumbled defensively.

With a groan, Stan said, "Stop being so difficult, Eddie. You know what!"

It was something like being pulled over by the police for speeding to your husband's funeral; you're already depressed by the circumstances, but now there's adrenaline kicking you out of your exhaustion, and you might be late to your own husband's funeral for speeding, and you're sweating before the officer even gets out of their car, and when they do, you're stumbling over your words, which makes you suspicious—

He swallowed down a lump in his throat and tried to convince himself that Stanley wouldn't hurt him, he wouldn't. Stan was like Eddie in the way that they both were sarcastic and easily agitated, but Stan wasn't afraid of germs. He wouldn't be afraid of Eddie's disease like his mother was, and like Henry and Belch and Victor and Patrick were, like almost the entire fucking world was.

"That..." Eddie swallowed, but his throat had run dry and h _e couldn't breathe and he was going to be killed on the streets and not be able to breathe through his own throat, through his own blood and_ \- he pulled his inhaler from his pocket, shook it, and stuffed it in his mouth. He gave himself a moment to breathe and looked at Stan nervously. "Th- that I- I-"

Stanley's features softened from irritated to empathetic (not sympathy, but empathy). "Hey, sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. It's alright, Eddie, it is. It's not bad. I- I don't think it is, at least. I don't think _any_ of the Losers do." He smiled then. "You can talk to me about it, Eddie."

—but the officer doesn't even give you a ticket, and you're free to go see your dead husband for the last time (hopefully).

Eddie's heart stopped thrashing in his rib cage, and he relaxed. Breathed in through his nose like his life depended on it. Watched the road ahead of him, focused on the potholes and pebbles and the painted lines. The terror slipped away, and he was back to his own inner-self-deprecation.

He looked at Stanley from the corner of his eye. While he was relieved, there was still a voice in his head telling him he was disgusting and dirty, and his own mother would hate him because he was sick, and his friends wouldn't be his friends anymore, and his feelings—no, the _symptoms_ —for Richie would be incurable, and he'd have to suffer with the memories—the causes.

"You don't think it's bad? That I'm- I'm _sick_?"

Stan frowned. "No. You're not sick anyways. They're feelings, Eddie; everyone has them. Some people just have..." the curly-haired boy looked away from Eddie at something else, looking defeated, and when Eddie traced his longing gaze, he found Bill Denbrough. "Different... feelings," Stan finished with an exhausted sigh. He turned to look at Eddie, back to his comforting smile, but there was the pain of heartbreak laced in that Eddie hadn’t noticed but had always seen, and it just clicked.

"Do you ever just look at someone, a- a boy, and think... these- these thoughts, that everyone knows a boy shouldn't be thinking," Eddie began, knowing the answer, but pressing on—it was a rhetorical question anyways. "But you can't stop? Every time he smiles or laughs or... or... or he makes one of his shitty fucking jokes. And..." Eddie trailed off and let his eyes wander to Richie, who was now teasing Ben. He wanted that to be him. He wanted Richie's attention. "And you look at him, and you think, 'God, help me'. Because you've got these butterflies meant for girls, and you get all warm, and your heart throbs, and you kind of feel... complete? Because you're with _him_ , and that's... it _feels_ like that's all you need.

"But then you think, 'No, no, that's bad. That's _dirty_ , and- and- and it's _wrong_ , it's... _disgusting_ '... But then he's so... so _alive_ , and beautiful, and you're sick and hopeless. But you think... maybe it's okay? Maybe everyone else is wrong about your feelings, because your feelings feel... right. When you're with him, you feel good about yourself. But when you're alone, and you can't stop thinking about him... you feel dirty. And then you're not alone, you're with someone who hates you for what you feel, and you feel like you should be like them and... and _hate_ yourself for something you've tried so hard to stop."

Eddie took a shuddering breath and pedaled a little faster. "And sometimes you do. Sometimes, you really fucking hate yourself for it."

▼

Eddie dropped his bike next to Bill's and Ben's with a dramatic groan. He exaggeratedly stretched out his legs, complaining, "I feel like I'm still pedaling! My legs should not burn this much. I might have scurvy. I haven't been eating many fruits lately."

"What the fuck is scurvy?" Richie asked, slinging his arm over Eddie's shoulders. "Isn't that like... what pirates had?"

"Yeah, they didn't have enough Vitamin C because they didn't have enough fruit because they were out at sea," Ben explained.

Richie clicked his tongue. "’Course you would know that, Haystack," he teased.

"They got rashes and all sorts of stuff," Ben added.

Richie whirled around to face Eddie with a ribbing glint in his eye that filled the short boy to the brim with dread. "Hear that, Eds? _Rashes_." He stalked forward, and Eddie moved backwards at half the speed. Then, Richie pounced, grabbing at Eddie's sides. "Got any rashes, Eddie Spaghetti? Sure it's from scurvy?"

Eddie squealed, halfheartedly pushing at Richie's prodding hands. "I do _not_ have rashes, Richie! Stop!"

But he was laughing, and he almost wanted to move closer to Richie, but that was bad. It wasn't—Stan said so, after all—but Eddie knew what everyone else would have to say.

Beverly would call him a sissy, and Ben would get flustered and scared and try to leave, and Mike wouldn't say anything (which would be so much worse than what he could've done), and Stan would realize that he was so, so wrong, and Bill would ask if Eddie was okay and if he should tell Eddie's mom, and Richie...

Richie would call him all those things Henry said, and he would hit him, and he would laugh, and he would make awful jokes about him "being more of a sissy than his mom in bed," and "Eddie would know all about having sissies in his bed, wouldn't he," and-

"Hey, Eds?" Richie mumbled. Eddie blinked around for a second, feeling completely lost, but he saw his friends chasing each other and splitting up into smaller, but secure, groups (it was the plan; they needed to appear vulnerable for any mullet-wearing, weed-whacking, psychotic cuckoo who may decide to go out for a little stroll that day), and the trees of the Barrens, and their bikes laying atop the hill, and Richie, holding his shoulders and eyeing him with so much concern that it hurt, because Eddie _knew_ the things he'd do if he knew Eddie felt and thought the things he did. "You okay, Dr. K? You kinda... disappeared, for a minute. Did I do something?"

"Oh! No, I'm fine, just..." he glanced away for a brief moment, but he knew Richie noticed, so he covered it up. "Scurvy?"

Richie paused for a moment before barking out a laugh. "Eddie Kaspbrak Gets Off a Good One! Oh man, is it the rashes, Eds? They getting to your brain?"

Eddie scoffed, gently shoving Richie's shoulders. "Fuck off, jackass!" He smiled up at Richie nonetheless, and then he ran off to hang out with Mike and Bill.

Their tactic of luring in Bowers and his fuckboys by being split apart probably worked, but Eddie eventually stopped thinking about it, because he was too caught up in the way Richie would laugh when Beverly blew smoke out of her nose and snort it back in; and when Eddie would gag and then choke on the smoke; or when Stan yelled at Richie from his place on a log with Ben and now Mike a dozen feet or so away for "disturbing the public" and the Trashmouth himself came up with a "genius" comeback. Richie was full of laughter, and it all bubbled out when he was with the Losers.

"Hey! _Rich_ !" Eddie yelled. Richie had unclasped his fanny pack from his waist on the _one_ occasion Eddie wasn't looking at him and made away with it, cackling like a coked up crackhead as he went. Eddie chased after him even though he really wasn’t going to do anything, but in some twist of masochism derived from being force-fed medicine all his life, he ran harder when his lungs began to ache.

Richie had bitten onto the fanny pack and started climbing a tree when it happened.

Eddie had heard a shout behind him, and he'd stopped to turn and check on his friends, but he had been caught by the collar, so his shirt crushed his windpipe instead of letting him turn. He retched, wheezing and gasping. His inhaler was in his fanny pack. He needed it. He regretted running so hard.

"Gotcha!" Belch cackled.

Eddie grimaced. Of course _that_ disgusting fucker had to catch him.

The tiny boy struggled against Belch's pull. All he managed to do was unbutton his shirt and choke himself further. He heard a shout of his name from ahead, but his mind was fuzzing up... he couldn't really focus on much other than the strain against his throat and the tears slipping down his cheeks. When did those get there?

Belch must have let Eddie fall forward, because his body slammed limply into the ground. He wheezed into the dirt, gasping for breath. His senses came back to him in waves as oxygen was filtered back into his bloodstream. The terrible, grimy, _dirty_ smell of earth filled his nose, and the cold mud had just a chance to seep through his shirt. Then he was being dragged, and it was stuffed in between the fabric and his body. It was freezing. Struggling didn't help much, but he still tried.

He managed to turn himself over, allowing for more air, but now the mud was sliding up his back and into his hair.

"Stop," he said. His voice came out much raspier and rawer than he'd expected, and it startled him. "Let me go!"

Belch snickered. "Make me, Wheezy."

There was a moment where Eddie glared up at Belch, writhing in his meaty grip. Next moment, there was a flash of white and gray palm trees. Eddie blinked, and his eyes settled on Richie kicking and punching Belch and yelling in a terrible Irish-British-Australian accent at Belch.

Eddie climbed to his feet, having realized he'd been released, and shook the mud out of his shirt, gagging.

“Oi, mate, touch Eddie Spagheddie again an’ oi’ll have to errest ye!” Richie shouted, giving Belch a right-hook to make him question all of his life decisions.

Eddie, mildly-traumatized yet somehow still enamored by Richie, tapped his shoulder, and when the bespectacled boy turned around, Eddie grinned up at him. "It's a lot easier to just-" he swung his foot back, and it made its mark right below Belch's belt. "Get them on their knees." The two watched as Belch collapsed to the ground, whining under his breath and holding his crotch.

Eddie returned his attention to Richie, the smirk still on his face. "Then you can go ham." And as a heat-of-the-moment, I-just-had-Derry-mud-up-my-shirt-and-it-can't-get-much-worse thing, Eddie stood up on his tip-toes, grabbed Richie's shirt, and tugged his face down. He planted a small but lingering kiss to his friend's cheek, smiled up at him, and scurried away to help Stanley.

Stan was preoccupied with the boy whose name they'd learned to be Steve, or Moose (the other boy was Peter, who was currently being dealt with by Beverly), but he cast a knowing grin to Eddie when he appeared at his side. Eddie gave an awkward thumbs up before grabbing Moose's mop of hair and yanking him off of Stan. The boy cried out, and Eddie pitied him enough to let him go, but Moose still fell on his ass, and when he looked up, his eyes swam with tears.

Eddie almost felt bad, and then he realized that no one had come to help Moose, and he felt about like how a parent would feel flushing their kid's goldfish down the toilet, so he crouched next to Moose and asked, "You know you don't have to hang out with these guys, right?"

Moose swallowed and looked everywhere but at Eddie. "I have to. No one wants to be friends with the retarded kid."

Eddie's heart was ripped out of his chest, squeezed, thrown on the pavement, and stomped on. "I'm sure they would if you were nicer. I mean, you seem nice, I think. You're just with the wrong people."

Moose's face twisted from terrified to disgusted, and he backed away out of repulse rather than fear. "Henry, he says you're a fag."

Moose thought Eddie was trying to get in his pants.

"Henry's a little bitch," Eddie bit and stood up, stepping away from his victim and letting any sympathy flood from his body with every repetition of 'fag fag fagfagfag-' "For all I care, he could get thrown in a well."

He turned on his heel, and Henry was there. "Thrown in a well, huh, _Eds_ ," the gang leader of the bullies of Derry sneered, and an image of Richie Tozier, smiling brightly and teasing Eddie endearingly about something, anything, flashed in Eddie's mind. But Henry was so, so painfully different than Richie, and the nickname made Eddie's blood run cold. "That _is_ what your faggot boyfriend calls you, ain't it?"

And suddenly, like a temperature whiplash, Eddie's blood boiled. A lump swelled in his throat, and angry tears pricked his eyes, but he couldn't move to even begin screaming at Henry, because he was scared.

He was scared.

Henry terrified him.

He felt his hands shaking, and he could almost feel the searing agony of having a terrible calligraphy project etched into his skin with a pocket knife.

"He didn't deny it!" some insignificant voice sounded from behind him, and he wanted to collapse and scream until his fragile lungs wheezed themselves up, but he couldn't breathe, and he felt himself backing away rather than fighting, and it felt like there were a million eyes glaring at him, shouting that he was a failure and he was a _coward and he was weak and he'd never be able to protect_ Richie.

Richie.

Eddie heard a shout, and it was a comforting voice that he couldn't quite place because he was losing it, and there was a louder shout, one that maybe wasn't all that loud but maybe Eddie's ears were fine-tuned to hear it, and it yelled "Eddie!" in _his_ voice and it was Richie, clear as day, but then Henry was approaching, which meant there wasn't time to stop the slice of silver going at Eddie's face, and it hurt, but he was there.

Mike barreled into Henry, tackled him to the ground. Something silver and red, now, slipped from Henry's hand, but Eddie couldn't tell what because he was stumbling and falling and his vision blurred and everything came crashing down with one more shout, scream, yell, plead of—

"Eddie!" Richie shouted, and all he could see was the blood slipping down Eddie's cheek.

From afar, Richie watched Mike tackle Henry in a fit of rage. Patrick and Victor rushed to the scuffle, while Moose and Peter took their chance and made away with a few scrapes and bruises, but Richie needed Eddie.

So he ran.

He sprinted as fast as he could, desperate to get to Eddie, and tripped when he was only a foot away. He landed on his knees—right where an inconveniently placed pile of very sharp twigs lay—next to Eddie, Eds, Eddie Spaghetti, Kaspbrak the Clapback, cute, cute, cute, Eddie. He let out a dry sob at the sight; blood gushed from Eddie's cheek, sliding down and matting his feathery hair and running into his tiny ear. Then, the real tears came, because _how dare he_.

"Eddie," he breathed, his voice wobbling and cracking. He slipped his button-up off of his shoulders and gingerly, so softly he wondered if it would really do anything, pressed it against Eddie's cheek.

He was stuck for a long while, not knowing what to do, but then Stan was there. The brains of the Losers nudged Richie away to roll Eddie onto his side. "He might choke if he's on his back," Stan explained, hoping to take Richie's attention off of the blood. He prodded the bespectacled teenager's arm gently. "Hey, I know you're upset. Can you go get me my bottle of water from up the hill? It's with my stuff."

Richie swallowed and blinked before nodding. He went to get up, but stopped himself. With only slight hesitation, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to Eddie's temple the way the boy had done to him months ago in the boys' bathroom after Henry had beaten him shitless. "You'll be okay."

The moment Richie allowed himself to get up and back off, it seemed his senses returned, like they faded away without him realizing. He could hear the yells of the fight happening only yards away, and he could see Henry beating Mike, and deja vu washed over him. This time, though, he wasn't weak; his knuckles were bleeding, probably gushing, maybe broken, sure, but he was riled up with adrenaline and he was fucking pissed.

He picked up the knife that had been dropped on the ground. For a moment, though, his grip slackened. He stared weakly at the blood on the knife. Eddie's blood.

"Rich!"

Richie jumped, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. He turned to find Stanley glaring up at him, but there was sympathy buried there. Richie hated it.

"I know you want to go get revenge, but we _have_ to take care of Eddie," Stan reasoned. His voice was soothing for someone who seemed to have a stick up his ass all the time, and Richie nodded. "Put the knife down and go get me water, yeah?"

So Richie did. He dropped the knife carelessly (he almost smiled when he heard Stan scold him under his breath) and jogged to the bikes. But of course he had to be stopped.

"Hey! Tozier!" a man's voice called, and Richie felt himself go rigid in place. Chills rushed down his spine, and he could almost smell his father's alcohol, taste his own blood, see stars, hear his father's shouting, feel the bruises and scars, his father's knuckles, his father's- "My kid been botherin' you an' your... _friends_?"

Officer Oscar Bowers. Not Richie's father. _Not Wentworth_ . He was _fine_.

Richie took a deep breath and turned around. He shrugged as an attempt at being casual, but he still felt the sixteen-year-old-in-the-90's equivalent of being pulled over with drugs in the backseat. "Er... yes sir?"

Officer Bowers nodded, hands on his hips, and glared at the scuffle happening under the trees. Richie and Officer Bowers had had a few encounters where the police were called because of the screaming that could be heard across the street from Richie's house. "I'll go get 'em. You alright?"

Richie nodded and buttoned and unbuttoned a button on his button-up, shuffling his weight. "Um, yes- yes sir, just, uh- he kind of, er- Henry stabbed my friend."

Officer Bowers turned around quickly, his eyes wide, and Richie braced to be hit, but it didn't come. "Henry? Stabbed your friend?"

Richie suddenly felt like he should not have said that. Something told him that he just opened a can of worms that should've been left to fester and rot from the inside out. But he nodded towards Eddie and Stan, who was watching him with fearful eyes several yards away. That look made Richie feel terrible. He was fucked.

Officer Bowers sprinted forward, and almost smelling their doom, Belch and Victor slunk away. This caught the attention of Henry, who had a rock above Mike's head and was ready to strike. The psychotic teen looked up just as his father screamed at him and dragged him up by the arm. He pulled Henry out of the woods and away from the Losers.

Richie came to his senses, grabbed Stanley's water bottle, and rushed back to Eddie. "Here, Stan," he said loudly and quickly, pulling Stan's attention from a bruised Bill, who was limping toward them with Beverly and Mike. Ben was already there, helping Stanley when he needed it, and Richie felt the exact same way he did when Eddie had come to save him in the football field the second time. Only this time, Eddie hadn't come to save him because he hadn't needed saving—it was Eddie who needed saving this time, and Richie wasn't there.

Richie didn't save him.

And maybe he _couldn't_ save him. All Richie was good for was being an annoying little shit. He didn't know a thing about patching up wounds or making slings or giving advice or saving people or leading people. All he could do was make shitty jokes.

He stumbled backwards, away from the group, and decided that he didn't deserve to be with them. All he was going to do was start another fight, start blaming people, start pushing and shoving and yelling and crying and punching and kicking and _why couldn't he just be useful for once_? He couldn't focus long enough to help anyone. If he couldn't help others, did he deserve help himself? Did he deserve anything other than what he got from Henry and his parents?

"Rich?" Beverly said in that soft, concerned voice. "Hey, Rich, you okay, babe?"

Richie blinked through tears he didn't realize were welling in his eyes and looked up at Beverly from his place on the ground where he didn't realize he'd sat. He rubbed his nose on his arm and nodded. "'M fine, Bev. Fine."

The redhead rolled her eyes and sat next to Richie. When she leaned her head on his shoulder and wrapped her arms around his, he felt the way his real mother should make him feel. "Okay, babe. Okay."

The two sat together for a long while, waiting for their friends to finish worrying over Eddie. It took him ages, but eventually, Richie stopped crying. He became an empty shell that was being filled by Beverly's motherly care, with every second she sat with him and let him lean into her and she rubbed his back and ran her hand through his hair and took his glasses off for him and just let him breathe. That was what he needed, and she somehow knew that.

"Thank you," Richie mumbled against Bev's shoulder, not opening his eyes and not moving to wipe away the few tears that slipped through his eyelashes.

Beverly pressed her lips to his head. "Of course, Rich."

▼

When Henry's father threw him to the floor as they got home, he decided that he fucking hated that fairy. Fucker told on him.

"Get up!" Oscar screamed. "Get up!"

Henry got to his feet quickly, standing up so straight his back popped.

He tried not to react when Butch closed in on him, when his father grabbed him by the collar and screamed into his face. Henry tried not to react when spit landed just under his eye, or when he was shook by the shoulders, and he tried to block out his father's words, because he did _not_ feel bad for giving those faggots what they deserved.

"You stabbed the Kaspbrak boy! You stole—and _lost_ —my fucking knife, but you stabbed Kaspbrak! Do you know what Sonia's going to do when her son comes home with his face fucking bleeding? She's gonna call the goddamn cops!" And with just enough movement to make it hurt, Officer Oscar Bowers backhanded his son. Henry stumbled for a moment, and then toppled over. He stared at the floorboards under his nose with burning hatred. His shoulders shook, but he didn't cry. He wouldn't cry. He'd lost that ability years ago.

And suddenly, the only thing he could hear was the buckle of a belt, a pause, and then ringing in his ears. With only the first lash of his father's belt, Henry gave in. He let his mind slip into nothing, like a drop of blood in a pool of water; cloudy and foggy at first, his thoughts all train-wrecking together, and then fading into just cold, empty hatred.

It only took moments for his shoulder blades to go numb—they were used to the torment, knew how to block it out.

And after a while, all Henry knew was the ringing in his ears and the dull thud of leather against paper skin.

But once the beating stopped and Butch retired to his recliner to watch the television, the ringing didn't fade with his mind, and his mind didn't come back. It was as though his sanity had been replaced with incessant ringing. Endless fucking screaming. Like his own mind was making fun of him, like a clown, and he saw _red_.

He lay there for hours, teaching himself to hate the world, and then he stood up. The motions felt rehearsed, like breathing or blinking or walking. He went to his room quietly (in fact, he didn't make any sound. Even the hinges on the door were silent) and opened the middle drawer on his dresser. He dug through the comics and socks and found the object he was searching for. He stalked into the living room, and then it was over. Officer Oscar Bowers was bleeding out in his own house, and his son was making away with the murder weapon.

▼


	10. Richie's Never Been So Wet

▼

**It was pouring when Richie** was chased out of his house, his mother screaming profanities after him. He ran around the front of the house to the shed, where he'd carelessly (always so careless, Richie, you’ll never survive with how clumsy you are. Maybe you don’t deserve to survive. Maybe you should just slip, like a knife in a trembling hand, or a teardrop down a cheek, a leaf floating in a stream. You could float, Richie, _we all float down here_ -) left his bike before. In a dreadful rush, he pulled his bike off the ground, threw his leg over the side, and started pedaling past his enraged mother and down the street. His tears were camouflaged by the rain.

After only a minute of biking down Derry's sidewalks, his clothes were soaked against his skin. He was openly and uncontrollably shivering after five minutes. After ten minutes, he'd given up on keeping to the sidewalk (because who in their right mind would be driving in this weather?) and started zigzagging down the street. After fifteen minutes, he dropped his bike next to the house and started climbing up the tree. After sixteen minutes, he almost slipped and fell. And finally, after seventeen minutes of being in the freezing rain, Eddie Kaspbrak threw open his window and pulled in a drenched and probably hypothermal Richie Tozier.

"Richie! Oh my god, are you okay?" Eddie pressed as he closed his window and started stripping Richie's clothes. He pulled the half-naked boy down the hallway quickly, shouting a quick, "Mom, I'm gonna take a bath!" before slamming the bathroom door shut behind them and locking it. He turned on the hot water in the tub and didn't even hesitate when he plucked Richie's glasses from his face and dragged the rest of his clothes off. "You're gonna get fucking hypothermia," he mumbled, his voice wavering as he recovered from his immediate panic. "Are you okay?"

Richie's entire body was shaking, and he had goosebumps, and he was crying. "Nnn-nn-nnn-no-o."

It was like seeing a malnourished puppy get kicked into the rain. "Oh, Richie..." Eddie breathed, looking up at Richie with teary eyes. "Okay, we can talk about it, baby. Can you get in the bath for me?" Eddie felt the water and grimaced slightly, turning it to be a bit cooler. He grabbed Richie's hand and helped him step into and sit in the rising water. "There we go. Alright, you wanna talk to me, hon’?"

He watched Richie settle sympathetically; the lanky boy's eyes slipped closed, and his lips parted to allow deeper breaths. A few more teardrops fell down his cheeks, and Eddie moved slowly to swipe them away with his thumb.

After a little deliberation, he looked away from his best friend to search for a clean rag in the cabinets above the sink. Thankfully, there was a stack of wash rags that were still clean, and Eddie swiped one and returned to Richie's side.

Eddie soaked the rag in the water—which was definitely warm, but not scolding hot—and smoothed it over Richie's nose and cheeks. "This is okay, yeah?" he mumbled, turning off the running water and making sure the drain was plugged.

Richie hummed in confirmation, and Eddie smiled.

"I'm glad you came, you know," Eddie continued after a brief moment where the only sound was Eddie's hands moving across Richie's shoulders and water dripping from the rag into the bath. "After yesterday... it's good to see you."

The day before yesterday was the second big fight, when Henry had stabbed him. The Losers had stayed out past curfew comforting each other, so they had to sneak into their homes. Eddie was taken home first, and the six others helped him get in through his window without getting caught. His cheek had been patched up, and he was exhausted and didn't want to have to deal with his mother. Richie had almost stayed, but when others turned away, Eddie brushed his thumb across Richie's cheek the way he always did when he was hurt and mumbled, "Go home." So Richie did.

Sonia had come in to wake Eddie up the morning after, and she had screamed at him and taken him to the hospital and given him more pills. Eddie was sobbing at the hospital, but once he stopped, his mother was gone and he asked his nurse if he could call someone. The man had helped him to the front desk, and Eddie had called Richie's house. Richie was, thank god, the one to pick up, and Eddie cried to him for several minutes until he was told he had to go.

"Iiiit- it ii-is," Richie agreed, his teeth chattering, and Eddie hushed him gently.

"Shh, 'Chee," he whispered and leaned forward to kiss his cheek. "You're alright."

Richie blinked up at him with flushing cheeks, and Eddie rolled his eyes with an endeared smile.

The two sat in the bathroom in silence for a long while, Eddie washing warm water over Richie's head and shoulders and Richie controlling his breathing and shuddering. It was domestic and comfortable, and neither of them could say they minded.

"You'll be okay, I think," Eddie mumbled. He wrung out the rag into the bath and unplugged the drain, tossing the cloth somewhere behind him. "Just shaky for a bit. I'll have to dry your clothes, so are you okay with towels and blankets for now?" Eddie asked, already moving to get multiple towels from under the cabinet.

Richie nodded and took Eddie's hand when he offered to help him out. Eddie wrapped the towel around his torso and unceremoniously flopped another on top of Richie's head, giggling when the tall boy groaned and pulled it off roughly so that his hair stood up everywhere.

"I'm too short!" Eddie excused, muffling a squeal and more laughter behind his hand when Richie swatted at him with the towel. "'Chee!" he gasped.

The two of them quickly slipped out of the bathroom and towards Eddie's room with Richie's sopping clothes in tow. They snickered the entire way, but Eddie squeaked when Richie grabbed his sides and pulled him back towards him.

"'Chee, what-"

"Thank you," Richie breathed. Eddie spun around in his arms, but didn't draw back. Instead, he let his nose bump against Richie's chin with a small smile.

"Course, Rich," he whispered back, sliding his hands up to gently grab Richie's elbows. "But c'mon, let's get you in my room, yeah?"

“You trying to get me in the sheets, Eds?”

Eddie pulled him into his room with a scoff and ears that weren’t normally that red (unless “normally” was when he was with Richie, and at their rate, it was starting to be), ignoring Richie’s giggling. He closed the door behind them, and immediately went to his closet for blankets. He managed to get a comforter and a smaller, soft blanket when Richie was back next to him, grabbing his upper arm and trying to get his attention. Eddie smiled and rolled his eyes before looking to Richie.

"Yes, 'Chee?" he prompted, closing the closet with his hip and tossing the comforter on the bed. He wrapped the soft blanket around Richie's shoulders and left his hands resting at the crook of the tall boy's neck.

Richie smiled down at him, and Eddie recognized that look, but he couldn't place it. It was like how one would look out the window at autumn's leaves, or their favorite book, or maybe someone they wanted to spend their entire life with. Eddie smiled back up at him. "It's nothing, just... you're really nice to me when I'm dying, 's all."

Eddie raised his eyebrows, absentmindedly tugging at a strand of hair curling across Richie's neck. "Do you want me to be nice to you when you're living, too?" Eddie asked teasingly.

Richie glanced away for a quick second and squeezed his eyes shut before nodding, and Eddie felt his heart shatter, because Richie had tensed up and Eddie could feel him shaking slightly and _he thought Eddie was going to hurt him_.

So Eddie stood on his tiptoes and planted a delicate kiss on Richie's cheek. The boy's eyes fluttered open right in front of him, and Eddie smiled despite the way his heart was shivering. "I think I can make that work, but you're still a dumbass," he joked, nosing Richie's cheek for a moment. Then, he landed back on his heels, ruffled Richie's still-wet hair, and returned to getting Richie warm things. "Do you like tea, coffee, or hot chocolate? I think there's soup in the fridge, if that's better?" He pulled a coat out of the corner of his closet. It was a Christmas gift from one of his aunts, and it was a couple sizes too big. He offered it to Richie, and the boy accepted it gratefully. Eddie hesitated as Richie lowered his towel to his waist, but then promptly turned back to the closet.

"I like tea, actually, and soup is good, yeah," Richie mumbled. Eddie nodded.

"Didn't think you were the tea type, 'Chee." He had to remember that. "Hey, are you cool with pants that are a size or two too small? They're comfy, to me at least."

Richie snorted. "What, don't want a piece of this, Eds?" And there he was.

"Guess the hypothermia's wearing off, yeah?" Not that Eddie minded.

Richie pouted nonetheless. "Don't sound so disappointed, Eddie Spaghetti. I mean I know we all want me to die-"

"No," Eddie interrupted, staring at the pants gripped in his hands. He turned to Richie slowly, his face twisted with guilt and worry and concern. "Don't say that. Please." He dropped the pants to wrap his arms around Richie's middle, his face buried in the coat he'd given him. "I love you," he mumbled into it, but the words were muffled beyond comprehension. Instead, he tilted his head so that his cheek was pressed against Richie's chest. He could almost hear his heartbeat through the fabric; it was fast and there was hardly a pause between beats. He sighed. "Don't say that, Rich. I'm so glad I have you in my life. Please, don't think that anyone wants you dead. C'mere, sit down."

He nudged Richie's sides, pushing him towards the bed, and the two of them sat on the edge together in a similar position to how Bev and Rich had sat after the fight. But it didn't feel the way it had felt before. It had been Beverly the first time—not that Bev wasn't great, but this time... it was Eddie. Pressed up against his side, running his hands up and down Richie's back where his spine poked out a little too much, holding his hand. It was _Eddie_.

"Talk to me, 'Chee."

And that was all he needed.

"My parents didn't care when I came home covered in bruises that night," Richie began, and Eddie started drawing patterns on his skin. "They brushed it off. But this morning, my dad was fucking pissed. Said my mom was up crying all night last night about how I'm a disappointment and she can't believe I'm getting into fights. As if they didn't have a part in half of it. His main concern was that _he_ had a migraine and couldn't get sleep, so he tried to beat her, teach her to be quiet when he's trying to sleep. And then he left, and she came wailing on me, talking about how everything wrong in her life is because of me, and she should've thrown herself down the stairs because she was happier before I was born and if I wasn't so useless maybe they wouldn't beat me. Maybe if I stood up for myself or- or I didn't get in fights, or if I could fucking function, if I wasn't a fairy, if I was worth absolutely anything, maybe she'd be happier. Maybe we'd be a family if I wasn't so goddamn useless.

"So I ran. Like I tend to do. I cowered and ran. And I came here."

Eddie squeezed Richie's hand. "I'm so sorry. You... you're incredible, you know that, Rich? You put up with them screaming at you and beating you for nothing. They're lying, you know? I know you might think it's the truth—because they're your parents, right? They're supposed to know what's good for you and what's right and wrong. But some parents aren't right. Parents lie, adults, they- they lie to kids because we're easy to manipulate, and I think some adults just need to feel that control.

"Not that it's right. It's so fucked to use kids and to- to lie to them, but they do. And when they say that you shouldn't have been born and that they would've been happier without you, they're lying. You should've been born—and I'm so, so glad you were, and I'm glad you're alive, 'Chee—and they wouldn't have been happier without you. Because if they're this abusive and manipulative now, it was just waiting to happen. Maybe their parents were like this and it's all they know.

"Either way, Rich," he reached up and turned Richie's face to look at him, smiling a bit. "I'm glad you're here. I'm glad you came, 'Chee.

"And by the way, you're not fucked up. You're a really good person, yeah? You try to cheer people up when they're down or hurt, and you try your best to be helpful when you can, and maybe it's because no one does that for you, but I think you would do it even if you were around good people more. Because that's you. Even if you make really just, just-" he giggled a bit, shaking his head. "Just the nastiest jokes... you're a nice person. And I'm sorry if you or anyone else ever thinks otherwise."

And with that, Eddie kissed Richie's forehead and slid off the bed. "Now how about soup, yeah? I shouldn't be awhile, but if I am, please _don't_ come down." Eddie brushed away a few stray tears of Richie's and pushed his hair back, only for it to flop over his forehead again. He laughed a bit under his breath. "Just stay up here, okay? And if you get bored, there's a ton of books, a few comics, and there's a Walkman and some tapes in this drawer," Eddie said, tapping his bedside table and moving to put Richie's clothes in a laundry basket and carry it down with him. "But like I said, do _not_ come down stairs. Preferably, don't leave this room, but you do have to piss and shit, so I guess try to be quiet? There's not many excuses I could come up with if you make noise."

“Aye aye, Cap’n,” Richie agreed, grinning a toothy grin that completely offset his teary, bloodshot eyes and puffy face.

Eddie gave one last adoring smile before he disappeared behind his bedroom door.

Richie immediately started investigating, first going for the Walkman. He pulled open the drawer to find the device and multiple Frank Sinatra tapes, and he smiled, because _of course Eddie Kaspbrak liked Sinatra_. There were also Queen tapes (obviously) and Elton John and a few others. Richie immediately went for Sinatra, because he definitely wasn't in an upbeat mood, and he wanted to hear what Eddie liked.

What Eddie _didn't_ like was having his mother fret over him just for asking for soup.

"Eddie Bear, I made that soup for when you're feeling bad! Are you alright?" she whined in her shrill “motherly-concern” voice.

Eddie huffed. "Yes, Mom, I'm fine. I just wanna eat soup."

"Are you sure? You didn't go outside, did you?"

"No, Ma, but I opened my window for a bit and the rain got me, so I'm drying my clothes. And now I just happen to want soup."

Sonia studied him for a moment, but eventually gave in and nodded. "Alright. It'll be a minute until it gets warm."

Eddie blinked, almost stunned. He couldn't remember a time she'd ever let him go that easily. "Okay, thank you, Mom. Can you call me down when it's ready?"

She nodded, and he hurried away to go back to Richie.

▼

"Can I take this to my room? I was reading a book and I'm really excited for the end!" he lied, pretending to be eager. He figured it went across smoothly, because she nodded and let him go. He walked away slowly to satisfy her, but as soon as he was out of sight, he walked as fast as he could without risking the soup.

He made sure not to spill any on his way up the stairs, too, and soon enough, he was haphazardly closing the door with his foot and rushing to Richie's side. The boy was still leaned against the headboard the way Eddie had left him earlier, listening to Frank Sinatra and reading one of Eddie's comics.

Eddie gently pushed a side of the headphones off of Richie's ear and smiled down at him once he got his attention. "Here's the soup. Is the tea any good?"

Richie smiled and paused the track that sounded like "I’ve Got The World On A String." He tugged the headphones off his head and around his neck. "Who made it?"

"My mom."

Richie grinned, and Eddie decided that he'd walked right into this one and he'd have to deal with the consequences. "Explains why it's so sweet."

Eddie groaned quietly, his lips quirking up, and _god_ he loved how easy it was for Richie to make him smile. "You're unbearable sometimes, you know?" He climbed into the sheets next to Richie so that their thighs brushed, but he hissed when he did. "Shit, your legs are cold!" And somehow, he found himself curling up against Richie in an attempt to give the lanky boy his body heat.

The two boys spent the day like that, waiting out the storm and keeping each other warm, and soon enough they were wrapped up in each other, asleep and in love.

▼


	11. Seriously, Can Henry Stop Ruining Things

▼

**Eddie giggled as Richie tried** to get through the window. "It's a valiant effort, really, Rich, but I don't think-"

And then Richie was making his way across the branch next to Eddie's window. Upside-down.

"Richie!" Eddie gasped, instinctively moving to grab Richie, but the boy made it down somewhat smoothly, and Eddie was left to gape at him from his window.

Richie winked at him with a sly grin, and Eddie scoffed behind his hand. "You're fucking insane!" he whisper-yelled down at his best friend, who just snickered and held out his arms.

"Wanna let this psycho catch you again?" Richie teased, and it kind of infuriated Eddie, so to make a point, he clambered through his window. He was small enough to sit on the sill and eye Richie from above.

"If you don't fucking catch me, I'll give _you_ an asthma attack," Eddie threatened, and then he was falling, and by some miracle, he landed on Richie. Notice the word "on," as in Richie didn't fucking catch him. Instead, he ended up slamming into Richie's chest and then landing on his chest. He wasn't kidding when he said he'd give Richie an asthma attack if he didn't catch him. "Shit, 'Chee! Are you okay?" He cupped Richie's face in his hands, scanning over him with worry.

"Ye-yes? You-" Richie coughed heavily, and Eddie winced, sliding off him and giving him room to breathe. "You took mm-my- my breath away."

Eddie rolled his eyes with a tiny smile. "You want my inhaler?"

Richie wiggled his eyebrows. "If worst comes to worst, dahlin'," he mumbled, sitting up.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Eddie asked in his precious way of being worried about Richie. It was twisted, and he knew it, but Eddie's concern made Richie feel important, like he deserved to be worried about.

"Course!" he chirped, ruffling Eddie's hair and making him whine angrily. "I'm tough, Eds, I can take it." And of course he finished that sentence with a wink, because he was Richie Tozier.

Eddie's bike, which had been mostly protected from rain where he'd left it under the tree, was the bike the two decided to ride double on (Eddie claimed Richie's bike was disgusting and needed to be cleaned, and he refused to let him sit on it, and Richie hadn't minded). Eddie narrowly avoided puddles, but it was difficult to focus on puddles and direction when Richie wasn't holding on to him.

"You're going to fucking die, Rich!" Eddie bit. "Just put your arms around my waist."

"I'm a gentleman, Edward!" Richie exclaimed in a posh Voice, as if he was offended the Eddie thought even for a second that Richie would touch him.

Eddie groaned. "You're about to be a dead man. _Please_ , fucking hold on!"

They were on their way to Mike's farm. Bill had called, and Sonia couldn't say no to him, so she agreed to let Eddie go. She was becoming more lenient, and Eddie was terrified she was going to stop caring altogether; it wasn't that he _didn't_ want her care, it was that she cared _too much_ , so much that she was hurting him in the process.

Richie only gave in when they started down the dirt path leading to the Bowers and Hanlon farms. The two fell silent, and Eddie gave up on avoiding puddles—he was too afraid of what he might see around each bend to be worried about a little dirty water.

When they finally made it to the Bower's farm, Richie held Eddie closer. They both eyed the house suspiciously; something about it felt... off. Maybe it was just the fact that Henry lived there, but Richie couldn't help seeing the way Henry's eyes lit up with fear when he was dragged away by his father.

They brushed it off and remained silent once they passed, but as they continued down, Eddie found himself glancing around at the trees and open fields and curling in on himself. He had goosebumps, and every time they hit a rock or a puddle splashed under them, he would flinch and squeak. The only comfort was Richie drawing circles on his belly, and his chin hooked on Eddie's shoulder. But the two remained silent, and Eddie could feel that Richie was tense behind him, too.

"It'll be okay, Eds," Richie breathed eventually after they turned a corner in the path and a branch on the ground had startled Eddie. "We're almost there."

"It feels like we're being watched," Eddie hissed, biting the insides of his cheeks and glancing at every little sound. "Or being followed. I hate it."

"Yeah, me too. It's alright though. I'll... I..."

Eddie leaned into Richie. "You'll protect me, yeah?" he finished confidently for Richie. "I know you will. You're good, 'Chee. I’ve got your back, too, you know."

Richie nodded, and that was that. They both made it safely to Mike's farm, and of course they were late.

Beverly and Mike cheered when they spotted the two rolling up the drive, and Eddie relaxed further with a content sigh. They would be fine.

Richie and Eddie climbed off the bike, and Richie went ahead while Eddie propped it on its kickstand.

He didn't even get a chance to join his friends.

The brush nearby rustled, and Eddie stared in paralyzed terror as a creature started stumbling at him.

It resembled something from the few horror movies he'd seen, or his own nightmares. It looked like it had crawled out of the sewers. Its clothes were soaked in blood and mud. It cackled in a familiar, crazed way.

Eddie shuffled back, but Henry was _close_. Eddie couldn't breathe. He fumbled with his inhaler in his pocket.

Henry got to him just in time to knock it out of his hands.

The two teenagers tumbled on the muddy ground. Any air Eddie had was ripped out of him. He gasped and retched, but nothing came of it except Henry's _laughter_.

"P-pp-pl-lee-hease-" Eddie rasped, hot tears burning his eyes. The sting contrasted with the freezing mud on his back and the cool metal pressed against his throat.

"Gotcha, Pretty Boy," Henry snarled. "My pops, y-yyou kn-nn-now what hhh-he did? He b-b-beat mmme be-b-bec-cause of y-you. I got mmmmy re-rev-v-veng-ge."

Eddie squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for any of his friends to notice that he was gone. All they had to do was check at the bottom of the hill.

"And now," Henry continued, pressing the metal harder, and Eddie stopped breathing. "Now I'mmm gettinn-ng you."

Eddie held down a scream as Henry dragged the bloody knife across his throat.

He could feel his own blood dripping down his neck along with tears, and it was like his body was screaming. It was a searing agony, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

He could hear his friends searching.

He felt helpless. Completely and utterly helpless.

"I fucking hate you," Henry said, and thank god he was insane, because he said it _loud_. Eddie heard footsteps thumping closer, and a few shouts, but he closed his eyes and let himself float away.

▼

Richie kicked as hard as he could when he got to Henry. He kicked the psycho again and again and _again_ , blocking out every sound that came from him, especially the laughter. Why the _fuck_ was he _laughing_?

"How _dare_ you!" Richie screamed, continuing to strike Henry even when he fell off Eddie. "Don't _ever_ fucking touch him! You hear me? Stay the _fuck_ away from him!" Richie kicked the knife out of Henry's hand.

He saw _red_.

He straddled Henry's stomach and punched him as hard as he could as much as he could. "I _hate_ you!"

There was blood. A lot of blood.

His knuckles ached. He drove them into Henry’s face harder.

Red seeped into the mud and the grass, underneath his fingernails, splashed onto his cheeks to warm the cold terror that had settled beneath his skin like a wolf coated in blood settles against the ground, waiting for the right moment to attack.

He stopped when he realized the laughter was gone. Finally. He felt the searing pain of his torn skin, and the deep ache in his knuckles, used to the pounding.

He took deep breaths, suddenly too hot to bear, like he was burning in the deepest pits of hell for his sins. He could feel the hot blood everywhere, his, Eddie’s, and Henry’s all mixing together and boiling him. There were tears there, too, slipping between his eyelashes and rolling down his cheeks, sizzling him all the way as the sight of Eddie, throat slit and Henry cackling on top of him, replayed in his mind. Eddie’s fear, his fear; Eddie’s tears, his tears; Eddie’s blood, his blood, all burning him.

Slowly, Richie blinked through the tears to find Henry out cold under him, his nose broken and a few teeth knocked out and cracked, and his lips busted.

Richie let out a choked sob, and someone went to help him up, but he got up on his own and staggered to Eddie's side. Through his tears, he could see tan skin being drowned by ruby blood.

He pulled off his shirt and pressed it to Eddie's throat, ignoring the biting chill that attacked his body.

"Police. Call- call the cops," he instructed absolutely _anyone_. Someone had to help him, please, _god_ , _someone help him_ , because he was just a _kid_. Just a kid who didn’t know how to deal with all these feelings, these problems, and his best friend could _die_ and he might have just _killed_ someone and god _help him_!

He was in a sort of daze, looking down at an unconscious and bleeding Eddie Kaspbrak. This was his _first_ friend, his first _best_ friend, and the first person to ever truly _care_ for him. This was the boy he'd just promised to _protect_.

But then, through his daze, something occurred to Richie; Eddie wasn't breathing.

"He's not breathing," Richie mumbled, almost confused, but then the realization settled. "He's not breathing!"

And he found himself breathing for Eddie while others cleaned his cut (thank god he decided to read magazines one time he ended up in the nurse's office). He could feel himself crying—his tears (Henry’s blood, too) were probably all over Eddie's face. Not to mention the fact that they were literally mouth-to-mouth; he could only imagine the panic attack _that_ would cause Eddie.

Sure, the boy kissed his cheek and stuff, but that was affectionate. Mouth-to-mouth was like... well, for two boys, it was disgusting. But he was doing it to save Eddie. It wasn't like he enjoyed it, because truthfully, he didn't. Eddie wasn't breathing, how _could_ he enjoy it?

But soon Eddie was sitting up, and Richie reeled back to give him room to cough and splutter. "Eds," he whispered and reached for Eddie's arm.

Eddie yanked his arm to his chest, his breath coming in short gasps. "D-do-don't to-ouch me!" he cried, only making his throat ache more.

Seeing Eddie pull away from him like that (like Richie was Henry Bowers) felt like a stab in the gut. Richie stood up and tried to get away from him, but he felt surrounded; cops piled in left and right. Someone grabbed his wrists and slammed him against a goddamn freezing truck. He hissed and almost tried to fight back.

"Don't fight with me, kid," a man instructed, and Richie went slack against the vehicle, because all he could see was his father's infuriated glare right before he hit him.

"What happened?" someone else asked, and his voice was softer. It made Richie feel at least somewhat better.

And so he told them.

He told them how he and Eddie were coming to Mike's to hang out with their friends, and when they got here, Eddie stopped to fix his kickstand and Richie went ahead. He told them how he couldn't believe it took them so long to realize Eddie wasn't there anymore, and how they found Henry Bowers with a knife to Eddie's throat when they went to check. He told them how he immediately started beating the shit out of Henry. He told them how he was so angry and _scared_ , he didn't realize what he'd done until he stopped. He told them how he went to Eddie and saw his throat bleeding and how he used his shirt to help stop the bleeding. He told them he realized Eddie wasn't breathing after he told someone to call the cops, and then he helped with rescue breathing or whatever.

"So, if Bowers dies, you agree that it's manslaughter?" the soft voice inquired, and Richie decided he hated him.

"He won't die, will he?" Richie asked instead. He didn't _want_ to kill someone, even if it was Henry Bowers. "I just roughed him up? He won't die."

"He _shouldn't_ ," the soft voice corrected, and Richie cursed himself.

"But he _could_ , is what you're saying?" Richie dreadfully inquired.

"He won't," someone he hadn't heard from yet assured him. "We've got him in an ambulance. Edward is also in an ambulance, but they haven't left yet. Do you want-"

But Richie was already tearing away from the officer's hold and rushing to the ambulance.

Eddie was sitting on the bumper, leaning against Mike with a nurse fussing over him. Richie hesitated, Eddie's words running through his head, but Mike noticed him and politely left Eddie for him with a smile.

Richie paused once more before taking Mike's place. He gingerly and discreetly intertwined his and Eddie's fingers, but the nurse still smiled and nodded, and Richie got a small taste of acceptance.

Eddie leaned his head on Richie's shoulder with a sigh. "I'm so _tired_ , Rich."

Richie nodded, running his thumb over Eddie's knuckles. "I know, Eds."

Eddie huffed. "You're never going to stop calling me that, are you?" he inquired after the nurse removed the older bandages from his cheek.

Richie grinned and kissed the top of Eddie's head (which was drenched in sweat). "Not 'til the day I die, Sweaty."

Eddie scowled, flicking Richie's thigh. "I was just mauled by our neighborhood psychopath, you ass; I think I'm allowed to _sweat_ , _Muddy_." The boy must have noticed all the mud on Richie's sweats. He started picking at the fabric in an endearingly revolted fashion.

"Yeah, yeah, alright, Sweaty Spaghetti."

▼


	12. (Love Is) Fucking Agonizing, And Twenty Other Frank Sinatra Hits

▼

**Eddie was asleep** —after getting his throat and Richie’s fists properly bandaged, waiting with the Losers in Mike’s living room as investigators searched the area and questioned everyone involved, and being told what had happened and what was going to happen (not to mention nearly being killed), the boy was rightfully exhausted, so Richie didn’t mind biking him home. 

Once they were closer to town, streetlights lit his way, a much needed contrast to the impossible darkness of the backroads to Mike’s house. He worried that Eddie would wake up with all the light, but the boy only snuggled his face into Richie’s jacket and went back to sleep. Richie swooned.

Then, like a dark cloud on an otherwise bright day, Eddie’s road loomed into Richie’s view. He slowed the bike up to the stoplight and eyed the street sign nervously. Richie was almost afraid to go to the house; what if Sonia was waiting for them? She was already likely to scream at Eddie anyways, but with Richie there… Things wouldn't be good for either of them if Sonia was waiting.

It didn't help that he didn't want that moment to end; he wanted to have Eddie cuddled against his chest for eternity (as long as Eddie was happy with it, too, of course, but Richie doubted he would be. Richie sometimes found himself doubting if Eddie even liked being his friend, if he was just his friend because he felt bad for him). 

Nevertheless, the light turned green and Richie continued on his way. The house was one of the last on the road, but after a few seconds of pedaling, he could pick it out from the rest. 

Sooner than he would've prefered, he turned into the yard, not bothering to try avoiding sticks or puddles—they wouldn't exactly be easy to spot.

He splashed into a puddle and nearly slammed into the tree almost immediately.

While Richie scrambled to regain control of the bicycle, Eddie hardly stirred, and by the time Richie was stopped, he was concerned about how exhausted Eddie  _ really _ was.

Richie sighed, smiling down at Eddie. He didn't want to wake him, but staring was weird and he didn't want Eddie to cramp from staying in the same position on a bike for too long.

Turns out, all it took to wake Eddie up was prodding his sides.

Eddie shot up (nearly slamming his head into Richie’s jaw), squeaking and grabbing at Richie when the bike wobbled from the sudden shift. Eddie huffed, peeling his hands from Richie’s shirt and grabbing his hands instead.

He glared up at Richie; a warning. A very un-intimidating warning, but a warning nonetheless, that if Richie ever did that again, Eddie would break each of his fingers. It was un-intimidating because Richie knew for a fact that Eddie would be too disturbed by even the  _ idea _ of  _ breaking someone's fingers _ to actually follow through.

Richie, being Richie, grinned ear-to-ear, absolutely delighted by this discovery: Edward Kaspbrak was ticklish!

Eddie groaned, and Richie giggled quietly. "It's cute!” he whispered, squeezing Eddie's hands. “Like you, Eds; cute, cute, cute!" And he meant it. He teased Eddie for a lot of reasons, but none of them were malicious unless you thought like Sonia Kaspbrak or Henry Bowers, and he hoped, pleaded Eddie didn't think like them.

The bike was fixed to its kickstand in record time (but still enough for the silence to replace their energy with exhaustion), and a few seconds later, Richie was holding Eddie up by his hips to crawl into his window.

He didn't comment on it when Eddie's shoe lightly kicked his face and dragged mud up his cheek, or how, when Eddie finally pulled himself through the window, the movement caused water drops to rain down from the windowsill. Richie didn't complain when he ended up drenched. He just slid his glasses off his nose and dried them with the hem of his shirt, and used a puddle on the windowsill to wash the mud from his cheek.

Eddie was alive, and Richie decided then and there he'd let Eddie kick mud and rainwater all over him if it meant the boy kept living.

He let Eddie pretend to help in pulling him through the window, and once he was in Eddie's room, he let the boy scoff at the mud on his face and bring him to the bathroom, if only to have Eddie purposefully hold onto him and get into his space (not  _ his _ space,  _ their _ space. Eddie was allowed in—Eddie always  _ was _ in, really, and Richie didn't mind at all—so it was  _ their _ space).

"Hey, Eds?"

Eddie hummed, glanced into Richie's eyes to acknowledge him, and continued wiping at the dirt on his face with a warm, wet rag. Richie swooned (again).

But he needed Eddie's full attention, because he was worried.

There was a brief pause filled with their soft breathing, and Richie thought maybe Eddie was waiting for him to gather his thoughts (despite his seemingly endless rambling, Richie had a hard time coherently articulating the words scrambling around in his brain, and Eddie understood that, apparently).

He reached up, grabbed Eddie's wrist, and eased his hand from his cheek, his movements slowed by the thoughts racing through his mind. Eddie eyed him, his eyes narrowing with concern, and Richie felt the pricking of tears behind his eyes.

"Are you okay?" they asked each other at the same time.

Eddie laughed nervously, and Richie just snorted as he rubbed at the tears in his eyes. His glasses ended up sitting crookedly on his nose.

"What do you mean?" Eddie asked, sitting on the counter. Richie was leaning against the counter, and when Eddie sat next to him, he was taller than Richie by an inch or so.

Hesitantly (always so hesitant with Eddie), Richie moved his hands to the crook of Eddie's neck. Eddie twitched away from him and gasped, and Richie felt a pang in his heart.

He moved his hands up to Eddie's face instead, hoping that would be better; Eddie squeezed his eyes shut, as if bracing himself, and Richie tried to make the first contact as soft and loving as he could. He brushed his thumbs against Eddie's cheeks and watched his features relax. After a long while, he murmured, "Eddie?"

Eddie blinked up at him, swallowed, and nodded.

"Can... can I..." Richie trailed off, not really knowing what he wanted to do; not really knowing what his options were to begin with. What could he do? What couldn't he do? There were certain things that he wanted to do that were obviously off limits, but that was where his mind went first.

"Can I hug you?" he asked (instead of what he really wanted).

Eddie nodded slowly, sliding off the counter, and Richie paused, because Eddie's eyes somewhat resembled autumn leaves; they were dark at the top, where the most light reflected, and they gradually became a warm brown until the very bottom underneath his pupils, where all the sun's light and the sparks of a fire and the gleam of gold seemed to be permanently encapsulated. Richie wanted to swim in that warmth forever, but then Eddie blinked, and suddenly he was surrounded in that perfect warmth.

Richie clung to Eddie. His hands found their way into Eddie's hair. He breathed in the clean, freshly-done-laundry, lilies-and-roses smell that was Eddie and sighed it out.

Eddie's heart beat against Richie's chest and he relaxed (melted, really). Eddie was alive.

The two boys stayed that way for a few long minutes, clinging to each other and relishing the other's warmth and heartbeat and soft breathing.

But then Eddie pulled away, only to reach up and hold Richie's face in his hands. His index finger tucked a curl behind Richie's ear while his thumb brushed over Richie's cheekbone and his other fingers disappeared under the teenager’s mop of hair.

They were close, but not close enough.

"It's going to be okay, you know," Eddie told him quietly. Richie felt the ghost of a breath on the tip of his nose. "After all of this. High school, I mean. Only the rest of this year and the next, and then we're out of here." He smiled and nudged Richie's glasses up on his nose with his thumb. "We could move over to Vermont or out to Cali. Up to Canada? Or New York, maybe, but the police there aren't very..."

"Richie Tozier-Eddie Kaspbrak friendly?" Richie finished.

Eddie giggled and pinched Richie's ear. "Sure, 'Chee. 'Richie-Eddie friendly'."

Richie hummed. "That was '69, Eds. This is '93! We rule the world, baby!"

Eddie hushed Richie and muffled his own laughter. "Shush, Rich!" he whisper-yelled. Richie definitely felt that breath. Chills ran down his spine. "I swear to god if my mom hears you..."

"She knows what I sound like during sex, she won't mind-"

"Richie!" Eddie reprimanded, thumping his cheek and pouting. "Don't talk about my mom like that when she's literally within earshot."

Richie grinned and prodded Eddie's sides. Eddie sat up straighter, and their noses bumped. "You like it, Eds, don't lie. Yew loik me jokes! Yew finks they're a real knee-slappin, yew do!"

Eddie huffed. It smelled faintly like peppermint toothpaste. "I like your jokes when they're not fucking terrible." He carded through Richie's hair with his hand, and Richie tilted his head. Their noses brushed again.

"What kind of jokes  _ do _ you like, Eddie Spaghetti?" Richie mumbled, eyes trained on Eddie's. Memorizing. Mapping.

Eddie looked right back, his eyes almost disregarding Richie’s slowly-slipping spectacles to focus on his eyes. His empty hand moved up to mirror the hand curled in Richie's hair. He found that he was actually breathing despite the intense situation; he wasn't having a fucking asthma attack like he thought moments like this would cause him. He expected something along the lines of a stroke; cardiac arrest; a coma, even.

But he just felt safe. So, so safe.

All the touches, the hesitations, the comfort and the words... it had to be what he thought it was. What he thought it meant. What he  _ hoped _ it meant.

_ What kind of jokes do you like, Eddie Spaghetti? _ the voice in his head (that sounded just like Richie's) echoed.

Eddie blinked up at Richie, all big pupils and mussed hair and flushed cheeks that were hot to the touch. They were an inch apart, close enough so that they could hear,  _ feel _ each others' breaths.

What kind of jokes do you like, Eds?

"Yours," he breathed. “Richie, I-”

Richie leaned forward.

Their lips fit together immediately.

Tingles erupted from Eddie's mouth to his cheeks, over to his ears and down to his neck.

Richie's hands settled on Eddie's hips, and his touch imprinted into the skin there, too.

Eddie absently pushed Richie's glasses up and out of the way and shifted closer. He wanted that burn everywhere.

He wanted Richie.

He  _ had _ Richie.

Eddie parted from Richie when his chest started actually constricting from the lack of oxygen, but Richie was so close he was almost breathing for him.

Eddie blinked up at Richie, who was gazing down at him with a look that made Eddie feel like a precious artifact that, if it were to be damaged or stolen, would have the entire world search for the culprit. Important. Desired.

"Hey,"

( _ the bruised boy wheezed, his voice strangled as he forced out a greeting—as if his guardian angel with two fanny packs hadn't just watched him get beaten to a pulp by Satan himself _ )

Richie whispered. His breath fanned across Eddie's lips.

Smiles broke out across both of their faces.

They swept each other back in for another kiss.

At 7:27 P.M. on April 13, 1993, Eddie Kaspbrak prayed that Richie Tozier never had to curl up and cry after being shouted at or beaten up ever again, because Richie Tozier had made him feel more alive than his mother's pills ever did, because he was good, because he didn't deserve to be hurt.

At 7:27 P.M. on April 13, 1993, Richie Tozier's life seemed to come to a complete standstill. The blood vessels in his eyelids painted his vision the red-orange of tigers and fire and lava and the sun and love.

The two boys parted when they got third-degree burns from the fires of their hearts and the intoxicating second-hand smoke filled their lungs.

Richie blinked and witnessed Eddie's autumn eyes catching fire in front of him.

When Eddie Kaspbrak's lips quirked an inch away from his own, Richie's life unpaused.

"You gonna survive, Trashmouth?" Eddie teased.

Richie rested his forehead against Eddie's and breathed a sigh of relief. "I dunno, Eds," he whispered, pressing a kiss to Eddie's nose. "I dunno. But you just had your mouth on mine, so I'm not sure if you're allowed to call me 'Trashmouth' anymore."

Eddie dropped Richie's glasses back onto his nose and fluffed his hair. "I'm not sure if you're allowed to speak anymore." And he kissed him again. This time, there was somehow more; like they'd done this billions of times and it had never gotten old, only better and better each time.

Love is a strange thing. It starts growing over time, maybe from the moment you meet a person or years later, until one day you look at the person or you catch yourself thinking about them and smiling, and you realize it.

You're in love.

And it might take your breath away when you realize it. Afterwards, it's kind of impossible to stop thinking about it. If they smile, your mind's first thought is 'you're perfect for me' or something.

When Eddie drew away and blinked his eyes open, he felt chills run up his spine, because he realized he was in love.

With a boy.

With Richie Tozier.

And oddly enough, he couldn't find it in him to care. Henry Bowers was gone, and his mother's torment could only last so long

( _ only the rest of this year and the next, and then we're out of here _ )

and god damn it, he was in love! How wonderful is that? Love is such a beautiful thing, and Eddie got to experience it! Why should he care that it was with a boy? Why should anyone care, except Richie? It was  _ their _ love, and they got to do with it as they pleased, thank you very much.

Eddie grinned up at Richie. He looked and felt like nothing could hurt him. "You're really pretty for such an ass," he informed Richie.

Richie giggled quietly. "You're really pretty for such a loser." Richie pecked Eddie's forehead and pulled away with a shit-eating smirk. "And you taste good for an addict. I mean really, you knock back those pills like my dad knocks back alcohol!"

Eddie winced for a moment, but then found himself snickering. "'Cause I brush my teeth every day, you prick. You taste like something crawled down your throat and  _ died _ ." That was only partially true; Richie tasted like what must've been tobacco (Eddie didn't know) and a little blood, but he also tasted like grape juice and Coca-Cola. In hindsight, that sounds like a disgusting mixture, but each flavor was faint yet distinct from the others, so it wasn't all  _ that _ bad.

Richie huffed and tugged Eddie's hair. "You seemed pretty into it, Mr. Mint."

Eddie flushed, because yeah, he  _ was _ into it. Not the taste, because he couldn't really focus on the taste when he was getting his first kiss, and it was from Richie Tozier. "Maybe I was, Trashmouth."

Then, he had Richie blushing. "You were? It didn't feel, like, forced? Or anything? Because if s-"

"'Chee," Eddie interrupted, smiling fondly. "I swear to god... I'm in love with you." He kissed the corner of Richie's mouth and elaborated, "I was very into your lips on mine."

Richie smiled bashfully, and it almost reminded Eddie of the way Ben looked at Beverly, or how Stanley looked at Bill, or how Bill looked at Beverly  _ and _ Stan—it was a very complicated love triangle-square-thing—except it was so  _ Richie _ .

After a while longer of them fawning over each other, their surroundings came back to them. Eddie led them out of the bathroom and back to his bedroom, where they crashed onto the bed in a mess of tangled limbs and hushed giggling.

They settled soon enough and the quiet allowed their minds to wander. At least their thoughts were pleasant; in fact, they probably wouldn't  _ stop _ being pleasant until something else world-crushing came along, but for now, they were happy.

"Hey, Eddie?" Richie mumbled, brushing a curl behind Eddie's ear.

The smaller boy blinked up at him, and the little smile that curled the corners of his lips made Richie's heart flutter. "Yeah, Rich?"

Richie smiled and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "I'm in love with you, too."

▼

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so sorry I've taken so long to update! I haven't been very motivated lately and I haven't had much time to work on editing, especially with trying to advocate for black lives matter. [Here's a link](https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/) on how to help out! Please educate yourself, spread awareness, and do everything you can to help. These innocent people don't deserve to die or be imprisoned for using their first amendment right.


	13. Bravery, Maybe

▼

**Richie met Beverly and Stanley** in the hallway between second and third period. He'd convinced them to skip class and follow him to the back of the school without them pitching much of a fight, and now the trio were leaning against the brick building and passing around one of Beverly's cigarettes, which Stan not-so-politely refused.

Like Eddie, Stanley wasn't very for drugs. Maybe it was a religious thing for Stan, but Richie didn't—and probably would never—know.

"So, Stan the Man," Richie began after sighing smoke through his nose. He turned to lean on his shoulder rather than his back and eye the boy next to him. "Bev already knows, but I'm gonna tell you, too, because... I honestly don't have a fucking clue why. Maybe I'm a masochist."

Stanley quirked an eyebrow in a way that made Richie feel like an idiot before Stan even opened his mouth and  _ told  _ him he was. "You're going to tell me something—something you think is important—for no reason? And you don't want to, but you're doing it anyways?" he asked. In other words,  _ Richie _ , _ you’re an impulsive idiot _ .

Richie huffed and passed Beverly the cigarette. "You're good with advice, I guess, alright? Stop indirectly bullying me." It was true; if someone wanted some moral correcting, they should go to Stan "the Man" Uris.

Stan scoffed, but went quiet. Not only was he good with advice, but he was, deep down under all his edginess, a nice person. He knew when to make someone feel cared for and listened to, anyway.

Richie took a deep breath and sighed. He found that he didn't need much motivation to tell Stanley this; he already knew his friend wouldn't mind. The only worry Richie had was whether or not he would think twice about certain things Richie did.

But Stan already did that, so Richie just let it go.

"I'm gay."

Stan glanced at Richie and returned to watching a few birds flit around in the trees. When the silence stretched, he looked at Richie again. "That's it?"

Richie's jaw dropped. "' _ That's it _ '?  _ That's  _ all you have to say?" he exclaimed, almost upset. He wanted Stanley to at least  _ act  _ surprised. In a good way. The pleasant surprise.

"Well, I mean, it's not a big deal, Richie," Stan shrugged with a grin.

Richie glared at him for a long moment. "What the fuck are you  _ smiling  _ about, dickhead?"

Stanley returned to looking at the birds as he mumbled, "It's nice to have someone else like me, is all."

Oh.  _ Oh _ .

Richie cast a quick look at Beverly, and she offered him a reassuring smile. With a bit of hesitation, Richie pulled Stan into a hug. It was stiff at first, but then Stan relaxed into it, and Richie smiled gratefully.

"Yeah, it's pretty cool, gay boy."

"I'll send you to hell myself, Tozier."

"I'll butt-fuck the Antichrist, Staniel."

▼

Eddie slipped into the school's library nervously. He'd been sent by the teacher to get a few extra textbooks, and he really had no idea where to start looking. He didn't exactly go to the school library very often (never. He never went. He’d rather not stray from the crowd or risk being late, and it was a rare occasion when he was sent to get something for a teacher).

But when he looked around, he noticed Ben seated at one of the tables, and he almost deflated with how much tension drained from his body. He hurried to his friend's table and sat down.

Ben flinched, looking up so fast he probably gave himself whiplash, but a bright smile tugged at his cheeks when he realized he wasn't about to be dragged into the boys' bathroom and mauled. "Hey, Eddie! I haven't seen you in here before," he pointed out. It sounded more like a question than a statement; why  _ was  _ he there?

Eddie laughed a little and nodded. "I haven't  _ been  _ in here before. Mr. Phillips sent me for a few textbooks and I have no idea where to start."

"Oh, Mr. Phillips? He's U.S. History, right?" Ben asked, and Eddie nodded again. "Follow me, I think I know what you're looking for."

Ben pushed out of his chair and Eddie followed suit, trailing behind him as he led the way through the maze of bookshelves. Eventually, they stopped, and Ben crouched down and started skimming over the spines of dozens of textbooks.

"So, you like reading?" Eddie asked to fill the silence.

"'Course! Books are so cool; each one is different even if it's the same genre, and there's so many different genres and styles the books are written in. I like to get in someone else's shoes sometimes, you know? And books can do that, it's amazing! Mike likes to read, too. Sometimes he and I go to the public library together and just read, and we'll talk about some of the books we like if we're not ready to start on a new book. Aha! This it?" Ben pulled a book from its place and offered it to Eddie.

"Yep, thanks!" he chirped, taking the book and crouching to pull out three more copies. "Do I need to check these out, or..?"

Ben stood up after a moment. "Nah, if it's for a teacher, just tell Mrs. Frank and she'll let you go."

Eddie nodded and thanked Ben again before heading over to the librarian's desk. "Can I take these to Mr. Phillips?" he asked politely.

She let him go ("Sure, honey!"), and he thanked the stars above he didn't have to do anything else.

As soon as he was out the door, though, he was being shoved to the ground. The books scattered across the floor, and he closed his eyes and silently begged for someone to help him.

"You got Henry sent to a nuthouse, faggot," Belch grunted, picking Eddie off the ground roughly. "So now we're gonna send you to the hospital."

Patrick was standing next to Belch. Victor was absent. 

Eddie narrowed his eyes, glaring daggers into Belch's soul. "Don't fucking touch me," he hissed.

"What was that, Pretty Boy?" Patrick sneered. 

"Don't  _ fucking  _ touch me!" Eddie screamed and kicked Belch in the groin. He hunched over, and Eddie took the chance to slam the teenager's head into his knee. Patrick grabbed him from behind to pull him back, and Eddie elbowed him in the gut.

He managed to slip free, thankfully. He scooped the books off the ground, cast the struggling seniors one last look, and darted back to class. He shot off on his inhaler when he got to the door and recovered his breath as he waited for someone to let him in.

Would this torment ever end?

▼

The Losers met up during lunch in the cafeteria for the first time. 

Typically, they would gather in a supply closet, or an empty classroom, or even a bathroom stall, but Henry was gone now. Henry was gone, and that meant the remnants of the Bowers Gang were virtually leaderless, and outnumbered at school by six to three-and-the-occasional-four-or-five (outside of school, the Losers also had Mike on their side). In conclusion, the Losers were finally safe to be normal kids.

In their  _ Junior  _ year of high school.

In their  _ last semester _ of Junior Year.

At least they could graduate with  _ a few  _ good memories.

Bill and Stanley, ever the collected, decision-making leaders of the Losers Club, were the first to the last open table. Then Eddie and Richie (they had their previous class together, and Eddie had forced Richie to come with him so he wouldn't have to go alone, but Richie would've come with him even if he didn't ask), and finally Ben and Beverly (Ben had waited on Beverly outside of the girls' bathroom, taking all the insults thrown at him because  _ Beverly Marsh had asked  _ him  _ to wait on  _ her—none of them could be that lucky a day in their lives!) filled the remaining seats at the table.

"It's weird," Stanley started, looking over an apple he'd packed to double (or maybe triple, or quadruple)-check it wasn't bruised or bad. "I don't think I've sat in a school cafeteria with more than one friend since fourth grade. It's always been just one friend, no friends, or anywhere else since then." He looked up with a smile. "I didn't realize I missed it until now."

Richie rolled his eyes in spite of the grin invading his face. "Yeah, I feel you. Until last night, I had to go a whole week without going to town with Eddie's mom, and let me tell you-"

"Beep-beep, dumbass," Eddie interrupted, but he was smiling, and there was a quick moment where the two just looked at each other in awe.

"A-aare you ever g-guh-going to ss-sst-op talking ab-bout Eddie's muh-mm-mom?" Bill asked as he shoveled a spoonful of watery school potatoes down his throat; Eddie winced and Stan swatted Bill's arm.

"Not until she professes her undying love for me!" Richie retorted, giggling a little and breaking character. 

Beverly snorted. "I think it might just kill anybody if they have to profess their love to the likes of you, Trashmouth," she teased. She made sure to reach out and brush his arm reassuringly, because she was joking, and she had to make sure he knew that she thought he was lovely.

Ben hummed. "I think Richie's pretty cool."

"Oh god!" Eddie shrieked playfully. "Call an ambulance! The police! He's gonna have a heart attack or something!"

"Aww, lay off, Dr. K," Richie whined with a pout. "Ben's a real one, you guys suck."

Beverly grinned, and everyone at the table internally prepared for the demolition that was about to occur. "What  _ do  _ we suck, Rich?"

Richie smirked right back. "This  _ d _ -"

" _ Alright _ !" Stanley cut in. "Jesus, I'd rather tell Richie I love him than put up with listening to you two interact ever again. You're all going to hell."

"Staniel, my man, are you trying to tell me you love me?" Richie asked.

Stan huffed. "I plead the fifth."

Richie wasn't sure whether to pout or to rejoice. "Stanley! Dear god, he loves me! Well, if there's one thing I've learned from Sonia Kaspbrak, it's that requited love heals all sorrows. Stan the Man, I love you, too!"

Eddie snorted. “What about dear Sonia, Rich?"

Richie bumped his foot against Eddie’s under the table while waving him off. “I’ve found another!” 

This back-and-forth lasted the entire lunch period without them being harassed, and they felt oddly free. Not the frolicking in open fields free, but the free where you could do almost anything without being bothered. The kind of unburdened, light feeling in your chest freedom that losers like them didn't get often, if at all.

It was nice.

▼


	14. In Sickness And In Health

▼

**Eddie couldn't believe it.**

He was sick— _ sick! _ —because of his allergies, meaning his mother was locking him in his room and feeding him pill soup until he felt like his drugged-up self again, but that's not even the worst part! The worst part was that he had homework.

But there was always a good side to things.

Eddie smiled from his place on his bed as Richie invited himself in via the window. He had his backpack on, which could mean almost anything, but it guaranteed he was spending the night, and Eddie's smile only grew.

"Hey," Richie greeted, dropping his bag beside the bed and all but launching himself on top of Eddie's work.

Eddie rolled his eyes. "Ever the attention whore, aren't you, Rich?"

The gangly boy shrugged nonchalantly and tucked his hands behind his head. "Attention whore,  _ best  _ best friend in the world; it's all relative!"

Eddie hummed doubtfully. He rolled the boy off his homework, but before he did he made sure to plant a kiss at the corner of Richie's mouth, so you can't call him a bad...  _ friend _ .

"What's  _ relative  _ is whether or not Mrs. Wilson is fit to be a teacher, because  _ what the fuck _ even  _ is  _ this English assignment?" Eddie groaned, glaring at his paper as if it would write itself. "Eight fucking pages— _ eight _ ! Why  _ eight _ ? Why not ten, or, better yet, five! Those are normal numbers, eight is more random than my mom taking me to the doctor. Eight pages on why sexual hygiene is important."

"Want me to help?" Richie offered. "I know a lot about sexual hygiene, since your mom is-"

" _ Rich _ ," Eddie interrupted.

Richie closed his mouth, hesitated, and started over. "So you don't want to write a paper on health?"

Eddie huffed with a roll of his eyes. "Richie, I'm  _ sick _ , and she's giving me a random-amount-of-pages essay on  _ sexual hygiene _ ."

It must've clicked then, because Richie's lips formed an 'O' and he giggled a bit before full-on cackling to the point that Eddie had to shush him. "She- she thinks y-yy- she thinks you're fuckin', Eds! Oh man- that's- that's  _ wild _ ," he snickered. "She thinks she needs to teach you how not to be silly and how to wrap your willy! Oh gosh, oh wow, Eddie Kaspbrak-"

"Yes, Richard, I'm glad you get the picture," Eddie spat, but he was smiling. "God, I really don't want to write this."

"Well, if you need motivation, just think about how spiteful you can be! You can wail all your medical knowledge at her, give her whiplash or some shit."

Eddie's fingers moved up to rest on the bandage across his throat as he hummed in agreement. When his mother had first seen the bandages, she whisked him off to the hospital to get him a "proper" checkup. Everything came out fine, but she still got all the tests she could and more done on him. He was stuck in there for five days.

She'd given him one more pill (whatever she could get her hands on) and lectured him for four hours straight about not getting into fights because he was  _ delicate _ .

She made him change the bandages every twelve hours (7 P.M. and 7 A.M.) with her supervision.

Needless to say, when he got sick a week after getting out of the hospital, she was rabid. She marched him to the doctor and demanded to know why—if he was on his medication (and he most certainly  _ was _ , all eight pills for breakfast and dinner) and he'd  _ just  _ come from the hospital—why on Earth was he  _ sick _ ?

They bumped him down a pill; the pill that kept him awake during the day.

Now he was at eight; one to help him sleep at night; one for his "grass allergy" that he didn't have; one to keep his asthma down, which didn't work because it meshed awkwardly with the pill for his arm that isn't broken anymore but she kept him on because there are "long term effects, sweetie," (there are  _ not _ ); three vitamins—D, zinc, and antioxidants; the cursed "gay-away" pill that clearly did nothing (as proven by the way he was looking at Richie now).

So he's been mauled by a psychopath, confronted with his sexuality, sent to a hospital for five days, and now he's sick.

And he has an eight page essay about sexual health due the day he goes back to school for his first period class.

After a long pause of self-pitying contemplation, Eddie dropped his pencil, pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes until he saw stars, and ignored the voice niggling in the back of his mind telling him he was going to go blind or get  _ eye cancer _ . "God fucking damn this entire fucking world, holy shit I hate this," he cursed. Then, he was falling against the prison-esque headboard and eyeing Richie. "Can I just kiss you instead of doing this?  _ Fuck  _ my sexual well-being."

Richie had to do a double-take, and for a second Eddie wondered if Richie had glitched out, but then he saw how red the teenager's cheeks were, and he smiled.

And when Richie swallowed down any comment and nodded shyly, Eddie's heart fluttered jovially, and when the two met in the middle over Eddie's paper on how condoms prevent AIDs and other STDs, Eddie found himself wondering if maybe all—well,  _ mostly  _ all—it took was bravery to get things good in life.

The excited blood rushing in his ears and the heat of the moment burned out the sound of someone calling out for Eddie. Neither he nor Richie heard the approaching footsteps.

And then it was too late.

The bedroom door creaked open, and they yanked away fearfully, but it was too late (too late richie always too late—).

The damage had been done.

"Eddie!" Sonia shrieked. She looked mortified, in all honesty, but Eddie could feel Richie's trembling fear, and it hurt more than his mother's piercing yell. "Eddie get away from that boy, that- that- that  _ queer _ ! He's sick, Eddie, and he's gotten you sick- oh god, your pills aren't working- oh you're sick, Eddie! Get away, boy! Out! Go!"

Richie went to get up, to jump out Eddie's window and never look back, but Eddie gently but insistently grabbed his wrist, and he stopped in his tracks.

" _ Eddieeee _ !" Sonia cried, tears rolling down her cheeks. "Eddie don't do this to me, don't- don't embarrass me like this! That boy is dirty and wrong, and- and-  _ Eddiee _ -"

" _ Mom _ ," Eddie snapped. He let Richie shuffle behind him on the bed—he almost smiled, even. Tense shoulders knocked against each other until Richie was comfortably (safely) situated, and frustration bubbled up inside of his minuscule body as he glared at his mother.

He was  _ angry _ . The only  _ sick  _ Eddie was was sick of his mother's six-and-a-half-inch-deep bullshit (and a cold), and he fucking knew it. He couldn't believe she'd called Richie that word and treated him like that. Eddie's skin burned with the fury coursing through his body.

But faint calm dangled just outside his reach as Richie's fingers drew shapes on his back and discreetly rubbed his sides.

Richie wasn't sure how to keep Eddie Kaspbrak from boiling over, but he was sure as hell doing a good job of it.

"Ed-Eddie-" Sonia tried again. By the way she was heaving and gasping, it looked like  _ she  _ was the one with asthma.

" _ Stop _ ." Eddie almost felt bad when she recoiled.  _ Almost _ . "Ma, you've always tried to take care of me. I know that's what you want; you want me to be healthy and safe, but... you don't do it right." He paced his breathing and forced himself to relax. Richie kissed the back of his head. "You're not supposed to feed me all these pills and pretend I have all these allergies or whatever just to  _ feel like _ you're taking care of me.

"And... and you're not supposed to..." he swallowed down a gasp for air; if he had an asthma attack now, she'd go right back to trying to control him. "You're not supposed to try to change me, Mom."

She narrowed her eyes then, seeming to have gathered herself in a heartbeat. "Eddie-"

But Eddie wasn't done. "No, let me  _ fucking  _ finish."  _ That  _ shut her up. "You do  _ not  _ keep me from my  _ friends _ , or my  _ best  _ friends, or my  _ boy _ friends, do you hear? They're  _ my  _ friends, and they make me happy. Happier than your pills ever did. And you don't get to call them hurtful things and treat them like... like... like an  _ animal _ ! Richie is a  _ person _ —a good person—and you don't have the right to say he's sick or dirty because he's  _ not _ .  _ I'm  _ not."

He took a deep, shuddering breath and forced his tears back. "And I like boys, Mom. I like boys, and I love Richie, and you can't take that away from me with a  _ fucking  _ pill."

Sonia stood there for a long moment, stunned into silence. But then she moved toward Eddie slowly. Blankly.

She almost seemed… not herself (like there was a demon possessing her, or a clown maybe).

Eddie edged backwards, worry and a flood of fear drenching over him. He got goosebumps up his arms and along his spine, the feeling you get when you know you’re in harm’s way.

His mind started screaming  _ MOVE EDS MOVE MOVE MOVE _ just before his mother drew her hand back and slapped him.

He could only gawk up at her for a long moment. Tears silently dripped down his cheeks.

You could hear a pin hit the carpet floor.

"Only dirty children talk to their mothers like that. My son will  _ not  _ be a dirty boy."

Eddie swallowed.

He had boiled over, and now he had to be taken off the stove.

"You  _ bitch _ ," Richie snarled. Eddie peered over at the boy; he looked rabid and almost as furious as he was in Eddie's hazy memories of him nearly beating the life out of Bowers. He was brave and strong-willed and good, and Eddie fell in love all over again. "You fucking  _ bitch _ . You don't deserve to have him as your son. You don't deserve to have  _ anyone  _ as your fucking kid."

Pliantly, Eddie let Richie maneuver him around so that he was snugly hidden behind Richie.

"I don't know who you think you are, young man, but-"

"I don't know who  _ you  _ think  _ you  _ are, you old  _ hag _ , but you can't fucking hit him. Stay away from him, yeah? He doesn't need you, and you don't deserve him. You treat him like your plaything, like a lab rat for all your pill mixing, and you took his childhood from him, so you don't deserve to be his mother, and quite frankly, you're  _ not _ ."

Sonia scoffed. "You don't know anything, you're just a vile b-"

"Boy?" Richie interrupted. "I'm less than a year away from being able to  _ vote _ . I graduate high school in a year. I like boys, and unlike every ignorant old fuck like you in this town, I know that that isn't a bad thing. I want to go to college and get a house and grow old with your son. And god fucking damn it, I know exactly what the world thinks of people like me and guess what? I don't care. I just fucking kissed Eddie Kaspbrak, alright? That's enough of an ego boost to block out homophobia for a  _ lifetime _ .

"I'm not a little kid," he continued, "And I know way more than you do if I know how to accept people for their differences."

Eddie smiled into the back of Richie's shirt.

Then, like the shatter of lightning across the sky, he heard a loud pop and felt Richie teeter to the side. Automatically, he shot up and grabbed for Richie's face, turning him to try and examine where he'd been hit. "Mom!" he cried out, exasperated and shocked.

"Get this foulmouthed queer out of my house!" Sonia screamed.

Eddie stumbled out of the blankets and off the bed, tugging Richie behind him, and cast one more glare at his mother before hurrying out of the room. They stumbled down the stairs, hands intertwined all the time, and stowed away in the guest bedroom.

"Are you okay, 'Chee?" Eddie asked softly. "Rich?" The bespectacled teenager sat on the bed limply, and Eddie took to examining his cheek again.

Richie nodded slowly. He seemed sad, almost.

"Richie?" Eddie mumbled, his features twisting with concern. "What is it, Rich?" He sat next to Richie and held onto his face gingerly. His thumbs brushed away the sting of his mother's hand, as if he had healing powers and whatever he touched was cured.

"I thought things would get better, since Henry's gone..." Richie explained after a moment. "I guess I forgot there's a whole world of Henries out there."

Eddie sighed and nodded. "Yeah, I thought everything was fixed, too." He muffled a cough into his elbow. "There's still hope, though, right? Only a year and we don't have to deal with Derry or anyone in it. We'll be okay."

Richie smiled fondly. "What in the world would I do without you?" he asked, his lips pressed against Eddie's forehead as a sort of thanks.

"I don't wanna know," Eddie whispered, curling up against Richie.

▼

Eddie slipped passed his slumbering mother and out the front door soundlessly, but as soon as he was on his bike and halfway to Richie's house, he let himself whoop and cheer and be loud because it was  _ spring _ .

Spring meant sunshine and warmth and flowers. This season meant everything was coming to life, and everything was bright and beautiful. According to his mother, it meant allergies and snot and sneezing, but spring was Eddie's favorite when he had the chance to enjoy it.

He dropped his bike next to his partner-in-crime's house and grabbed a clean-enough rock off the ground. The rock hit the window first try, and moments later, Richie's bright, lively grin was shining down on him.

The warmth on his skin wasn't just from the sun, now.

"Eds!" Richie gasped. "A pleasant surprise, I do say!"

Eddie rolled his eyes, but he was beaming. "I don't think it's all that surprising that I'm here," he teased, eyeing Richie with all the loving concern he'd always had in him as the boy clambered down carelessly from his window. When he touched the ground and hurried to Eddie's side, though, Eddie added, "But thank you."

The two boys ran through Derry, collecting their friends from their homes and then running off into the woods. They chased each other on their bikes until they got to the cliff over the quarry, where they lay out in the sun. No one even blinked when Richie and Eddie ended up basking in each other more than the sun, and it didn't take long for them to see Beverly drop down into the water gleaming below.

Bill went after her, all red hair and warm skin until he splashed against the surface and disappeared underneath. Mike was next—he'd never been to the quarry, but he didn't hesitate to dive in after his friends, and Eddie cheered him on before following him.

Air rushed past him as he dropped; it was cool against his skin, and it took his breath away, but it felt like freedom, like he was flying rather than dropping. Maybe Icarus felt this way before he realized he  _ was  _ falling—like he could do anything despite the looming danger that was the water beneath.

Eddie folded in on himself and shattered the surface of the water. It was warm from the sun, and as it enveloped him and shoved him under, he found himself laughing.

He was  _ free _ . He was  _ alive _ .

Bubbles escaped past his lips, and he swam to the surface for air. He couldn't even find it in him to care about his wounds getting infected, because it was  _ spring _ , and he finally had friends—

No, not friends, he thought, gasping for air. Family. He finally had people who cared about him for the  _ right  _ reasons.

The thought made Eddie smile a bit brighter.

He shook his head wildly, and water sprayed in all directions, only to be drenched again as someone else (Richie or Ben or Stanley) hit the water next to him. Ben's flushed cheeks burst out of the water after a moment, and Eddie found himself laughing again. Ben giggled, too, upon seeing Eddie's face.

His happiness was contagious.

"Hey, Eds!"

Eddie looked up to see Richie peering down at him from the cliff.

"Catch me!"

And then Richie was falling, and Eddie had half the mind to actually try to catch his partner (partner? Did they have a label yet?), but he moved out of the way nonetheless.

Richie crashed into the water a few feet away. Eddie sank under to swim towards him. His arm was extended to feel around as he searched blindly. A hand grabbed his, and the familiarity of the callouses and contusions sent shocks and shivers along his skin. Hesitantly, Eddie opened his eyes; it burned at first, but then he could see Richie grinning in front of him. Even though he was blurred, he still looked gorgeous, and Eddie didn't hold back from kissing him.

It wasn't a very long kiss, as they had to break apart and swim up for air, but it had its effect. The two had heart eyes that rarely left each other, even as the other Losers distracted them, and everyone seemed to come to a silent agreement in that the two boys' love for each other ran deeper than the water they danced around each other in.

Eddie shrieked when something grabbed his ankle, kicking and thrashing to get away, and he was practically fuming when Bill appeared where he was, laughing loudly.

"Bill! You fucking scared me, dickhead!" Eddie yelled, bristling, but Bill's laughter was contagious, and he found himself giggling, too.

"Yyy-yuh-yeah, I heard you sss-sc-scream from underww-water," Bill teased. "You sound like a t-tw-two-yuh-year-r-old."

Eddie crossed his arms, pouted, and cast a half-hearted glare at Bill, who floated next to him.

"I-I'm p-puh-pruh-prou-  _ fuck _ . I'm proud of yuh-you two," Bill told him in a low voice after a pause.

Eddie's defensiveness melted away after that. "Of who? What?" he asked, playing dumb to protect Richie.

Not that Bill was talking about him and Richie, necessarily.

"You and Richie." So he was. It was clear he knew Eddie was playing dumb, too. "He nnn-nnuh-needs someone like you, and you need suh-someo-one like hhh-him. And you guys a-are cute."

Eddie opened and closed his mouth, like a fish, struggling to find his words. "How do you know?"

Bill rolled his eyes with a grin. "P-puh-please. I know the w-wway you l-ll-look at each other."

"It's how you look at Stan and Bev," Eddie told him.

Bill was stunned for a moment, as though he didn't realize he was smitten, but his gaze trailed to his two crushes, and he nodded.

"He looks at you that way, too, you know." Eddie smiled at the astonished look that crossed Bill's face. "You should've seen you two the night Richie and I met you guys. You were practically in love, it was disgusting," he teased. "God, Stan talked to me about you one time—it was really indirect but also really obvious it was about you. I probably shouldn't be telling you this, he's gonna kill me."

"Hhh-hhe-he ruh-really? He tah-halks ab-bout mm-me?"

Eddie snorted. " _ Does  _ he. If he was Richie, he'd never  _ stop  _ talking about you."

Bill looked like he couldn't believe Stanley ever even thought about him with the way his cheeks were flushing and his jaw was close to scraping the bottom of the quarry.

"What're we talkin' 'bout, boys?" Richie cawed, splashing close to Eddie.

Eddie grinned and elbowed the boy. "Your mom. She's a wild one, that Mrs. Tozier."

Richie snickered. "Tell me about it. She drinks like a dehydrated elephant and yells like a wild banshee!"

Eddie winced at the dark humor, bumping his hand into Richie's under the water, but Bill laughed.

"Bill!" Eddie scolded. "That's not funny!"

"I know, I-I-I know!" he defended through his laughter. "I'm sorry!"

Eddie grinned, rolling his eyes and shaking his head, and when Stanley waded over and started talking to Bill, he had to muffle his giggles behind his hand.

"What're ye laughin' about, Love?" Richie asked in a Voice that sounded like an Australian pirate.

Eddie shook his head and regained his composure. "Nothing, just something Bill said."

Richie glanced at Bill and Stan and shrugged it off, instead focusing on Eddie. "You know, for all the shit you've been through, you're still really pretty."

And it's like a switch was flipped, because Eddie found his breath had hitched and the butterflies in his stomach started fluttering their wings and when he reached out and touched Richie's arm, the burn felt like life dancing on his fingertips and leaving goosebumps in its wake as it ballerina-danced up his arms and down his spine.

He pulled Richie underwater and, to satisfy that burning yearn for  _ RichieRichieRichie _ , he kissed him.

Bubbles fluttered along his skin. It felt like flowers bloomed from their lips, the petals tickling his arms where they rested at Richie's shoulders, and as he pushed his hands through Richie's hair, he shuddered; Richie kissed him harder, less gentle and and careful and more desperate. But his hair was feathery and soft, and Eddie would love to be tangled in it for days.

Breath always ruined everything, though, and the two boys kicked up for air with their limbs knocking against each other all the way. They were exactly how middle-aged married high school sweethearts talked about the earliest chapter of their relationship when they were hormonal and naive and curious. With that thought came a flood of others, mainly of him walking down The Aisle to Richard Tozier in a tux and smiling and laughing and crying, and yeah, naive, sure. Eddie was naive, but was that really such a bad thing when he was with goofy, clumsy, gorgeous Richie Tozier, who would probably go to the ends of the earth for him? 

He grinned at Richie, and Richie grinned back, and they were both so far gone yet so remarkably  _ alive _ . They were part of the trees and the air and the clouds and the grass and the water they floated in, and they were part of each other, too.

In sickness and in health.

▼

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love these boys :')


	15. The Clubhouse

▼

**The Losers filed into the hollowed-out den** one by one, following after Ben. Beverly was first; when she got down from the ladder, she gasped and told Ben how proud she was. Then Stanley, who was intrigued (if the architecture could get  _ Beverly Marsh _ to  _ gasp _ , it probably wasn't going to cave in), and Bill close behind him. Mike was next, and Richie was halfway down the steps when he turned and looked up at Eddie.

"Doth thee hast thou inhaler, young adventurer?" he asked in a Voice that was meant to make Eddie feel better.

Eddie pulled the inhaler out of his pocket, shook it, and shot off on it to show Richie that yes, he did, in fact, have his inhaler.

"You've got that and you've got dear ol' me; you're all set!" And when Eddie still looked doubtful, Richie reached out and held Eddie's ankle. "I won't let you get hurt. I've gotcha, Eds." He smiled to sell his promise, and when Eddie relaxed and nodded, the teenager dropped down into the clubhouse.

He was stunned, to say the least.

Multiple wooden pillars held up the roof, and although the floor was dirt, it was comfortable; it was also surprisingly spacious. More wood lined the walls and filled the gaps, and the light that flooded in from the trapdoor being left open filled the shadows.

"Damn, Haystack," he commented, clapping the chubby teenager's shoulder. "How the fuck did you do this?"

" _ When  _ did you do th-this?" Bill asked.

Ben shrugged. "Here and there. It was already dug out from something, so I just had to reinforce the walls and get some wood for the roof door... that's pretty much it."

"It's amazing, Ben," Beverly complimented, bumping Richie out of the way to talk to Ben.

Richie ended up tumbling into Stan, who shoved him to Eddie, who had just got to the bottom of the ladder. They slammed into the wall, Richie's glasses digging into his nose uncomfortably. He groaned dramatically and shifted, only for Eddie to fall down and drag Richie down with him, and they hit the floor in a mess of dust and limbs.

"God damn you, Staniel," Richie cursed. He slipped off his glasses and rubbed his nose. Meanwhile, Eddie peeled Richie's legs off of his chest and tugged his arm out from under Richie's back.

Eddie huffed. "You people are going to cause me premature arthritis."

"You people are going to cause  _ me  _ a fucking headache," Stan scoffed.

Richie snorted. "I don't think that's the only thing that's gonna be aching if you talk like that around your pops."

Stan kicked Richie's leg and marched to the opposite side of the clubhouse to pout in the shadows.

"Way to kick a man while he's down, Stanielton!"

"It's more like giving a mass murderer the electric chair," Stan snapped.

Richie fell back dramatically to pretend to be insulted, only to fall against a nail sticking out. He yelped and reeled forward, crashing into Eddie again but this time pressing closer. "Ow, what the fuck? Holy shit, god that hurt! What the hell was that?"

Eddie peered over his shoulder. "A nail- a  _ nail _ , oh my god, you're going to get tetanus and  _ die _ , what the fucking fuck, oh my god! The one day I don't have my fucking fanny pack—Jesus Christ, Richie- are you okay?"

"I just got stabbed!" Richie exasperated. "No, I'm not okay!"

Eddie pulled up the back of Richie's shirt to examine the wound.

He was quiet for a minute, and Richie could almost feel his terror, hear his rushing thoughts of pure-

He was  _ giggling _ .

"What the fuck, Eddie," Richie muttered. "What's funny about this?"

"You're such a pussy," Eddie snickered. "There's not even a scratch, Rich."

"What do you mean there's not a scratch?" he demanded, eyeing Eddie like this was a really terrible joke. Sweet, sweet irony. Almost as irony as the blood that was still inside of his body.

Eddie grinned and shook his head. "There's not a mark on your back, you fuck-knot."

Richie gaped at him. "You're  _ lying _ ! I'm bleeding out right now and you're  _ laughing  _ at me!"

"You are  _ not  _ bleeding out!" Eddie insisted through his giggles. "You're just fucking hypersensitive or some shit."

"I'll  _ show  _ you hypersensitive," Richie muttered.

"Alright, alright," Stan interrupted from the opposite side of the space. "There's five other people here, dumbasses; we don't wanna see anybody showing anyone  _ hypersensitivity _ ."

Richie folded his arms and huffed, glaring over his glasses. "That's not what your dad said last night. He showed me  _ all  _ his hypersensitive spots-"

"Beep-beep, Richie!" Beverly and Eddie butted in at the same time. They looked at each other with surprised expressions before giggling, and Richie completely forgot why he was upset in the first place.

"Back on t-t-topic," Bill mumbled, but he was smiling; everyone was. "Why are we d-dow-down here, B-Buh-Ben?"

"Well, I mean- I just thought we could start hanging out here now," Ben explained, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and glancing around.

Mike spoke for the first time in a while, smiling and telling Ben, "That sounds good. You guys don't have to go home smelling like farm animals now."

Ben laughed, appreciating the reassurance.

Beverly smiled wider. "Yeah, it can be our hiding place. We've got to fix it up, though; no offense, Benny, but it could use some decoration."

Ben nodded, a bashful mess, and everyone could almost gag at how cute the couple were.

"Hell yeah! These walls are getting covered in posters, fuck you guys," Richie decided.

"I want somewhere to sit," Stan said, proving Richie's point that he was a senile old woman in a sixteen-year-old boy's body.

Mike nodded. "And light. This place could use more light."

"Okay, th-then we can all stuh-hart bringing s-st-stuff over whenever we v-vv-visit," Bill told them, and they all agreed—it was Bill.

▼

The next time Eddie stumbled into the underground-treehouse, he was met with Bill, Beverly, Ben, and Stanley. He had half the mind to turn around and immediately go to Richie's house or his own.

"E-Eddie!" Bill called, stopping him in his tracks. "You're a n-nnuh-nice s-ss-ssuh-suh-supr-rise!"

Eddie chuckled and wiped his palms on his shorts. "Yeah. What- uh, what are you guys up to?" he asked, glancing between them with his body still half-turned towards the escape.

Beverly sighed as she dropped onto a pallet and turned up the volume on a boombox. New Kids On The Block filled the air. She threw a smirk Ben's way, which he caught with an embarrassed smile. Eddie would absolutely never understand them.

Bill was picking at a button on his red flannel, trying to meet the others' eyes and getting nothing in return.

Ben was tracing the lines on the spine of a book he'd been reading recently.

"Um, no offense," Stan huffed, keeping anyone from answering Eddie, "but we were in the middle of something, Eddie."

Eddie nodded. "Yeah, uh, I- I noticed."

"Don't be such a stiff, Stanny," Beverly chirped over the static of the radio—she was trying and failing to find something to listen to other than New Kids On The Block, seemingly for Ben's sake.

"Well, I'm just saying we shouldn't  _ not _ talk about this just because Eddie's here! I- I just want to get it over with," he whispered. He looked helpless, gazing between Bill and Beverly like their decision was the only thing keeping him from sinking into an empty pit. Eddie felt terrible.

Ben cleared his throat. "Yeah, um, I really, you know... I want to fix..." he glanced between Beverly and Bill, then back down to his fiddling hands. "This."

Eddie suddenly felt very much like an intruder. Moreso than he'd felt when he dropped in, at least. "I'm just going to..." he mumbled, starting to step onto the ladder. Before anyone could stop him, he was stumbling up the rest of the way and tripping onto his bike. He never wanted to be in the middle of a situation like that ever again.

▼

The third time Eddie slipped into the Clubhouse, he was accompanied by Richie and the seven posters they'd bought, fifty cents each, from a record store in town. Stan and Bill were already down there—Stanley was toying with a camera he'd bought a few days ago, and Bill was pretending to be measuring something, but both of them were shifting around awkwardly with flushed cheeks.

Something had happened.

Eddie glanced at Richie, and when the two made eye contact, they both seemed to make a consecutive decision. 

"'Sup, gays," Richie greeted casually as he haphazardly tossed the rolled-up band and movie posters onto the mat under their feet.

Bill and Stanley looked like the air had been torn from both of their lungs, or like deer in headlights. Caught red handed. Guilty, but mainly scared.

"I think you spooked them, Rich," Eddie pointed out.

"Y-yuh-yuh-y-you-you-y-" Bill tried, and Eddie glared at Richie. "You kn-nuh-n-no-n- know?"

Richie shrugged. "It's kind of obvious, doncha think? Yer mighty cute, though! Cuties, ah say!  _ Daaawls _ !"

"Oh my god, Richie, stop," Eddie all but scolded the boy before turning back to Stanley and Bill. "Don't freak out, we're not that secretive about us, either."

"Who knew most of the Loser's Club is gay?" Richie asked as he graciously took the bag of push pins from Eddie. "Oh wait, I did. Teehee. I knew Stan was gay before all of you bastard children."

Eddie snatched the push pins back. "I'm not about to give you push pins. You're bound to stick your thumb to the wall or rip half of the poster. If anyone but me is doing this, it's Stan the Man, whom I  _ obviously  _ knew was into Bill before everyone." When Richie pouted, though, he sighed and smiled. "If you must, you can choose which posters go where and you can hold them. If they're crooked, it's your fault by default, and I hereby give Stan permission to smack you into next Wednesday."

"Aye aye,  _ captain _ ," Richie saluted with a wink, and Eddie pretended to gag. 

"So, you t-t-t-two are to-t-to-together?" Bill asked.

Eddie glanced at Richie, who was already looking pointedly at him, and huffed. 

"Yeah, Eds,  _ are we together _ ?"

Eddie quirked an eyebrow. "You're really going to let  _ me  _ ask  _ you  _ out?"

" _ God _ , if you  _ insist _ , I guess I  _ can  _ ask you out," Richie pretended to pout. "Wanna be my little spoon forever, Edward?"

"I already am, asshole! Ask me to be your  _ boyfriend _ ."

"Damn, alright," Richie grumbled, and Eddie folded his arms. "Spaghetti Man, date me?"

"I'm not talking to you for the rest of the day," Eddie threatened, turning away.

"Hey, hey, wait!  _ That's  _ a little far!" he exclaimed and rushed to stand in front of Eddie. He cupped his face in his hands despairingly. "Alright, I'm sorry. Will you be my boyfriend, Eddie?"

Eddie smiled and nodded. "'Course. I would kiss you, but St-"

And then Richie was sweeping him up and kissing him himself, and Eddie could only worry about Stan and Bill for a moment before he gave in to the want and kissed Richie back. It was brief, but it was lasting; especially when there was a  _ click _ ! and the flash of a camera.

"Hey, being forced by my parents to take a photography class actually has benefits!" Stanley said, taking the photo and sliding it into a dark corner.

Bill had a big smile and cheeks as red as his hair. "That was cute," he complimented.

Eddie and Stanley rolled their eyes, but Richie's were stuck on Eddie. In fact, they almost looked like they would pop out of his head, and his coke bottle glasses didn't help. He had a smile double the size of Bill's, though, and Eddie's heart melted. 

" _ That  _ is disgusting," Stanley murmured not-so-quietly to Bill. "They're practically fucking each other with their eyes right now. I might puke."

"I'll hold your h-hh-hair b-b-back," Bill offered, still smiling at the pair.

The four boys were startled as the hatch was thrown open. They stared fearfully up at the new flood of light, and then Richie waltzed up to the ladder like a fucking idiot. “Oi! Who goes theh? Oi’ll mess yew up, mate, yew best wotch- Bevaly! Wot a lovely surprise! Cam on, cam on, get down heh, and- Ben! Moikey! Deloitful, Oi’ll say!”

Richie jumped back as Beverly dropped down. Despite her attempt to be angry, she was smiling as she said, "Richie, you spoiled my surprise! I was gonna scare the shit out of you fuckers."

Stan, Bill, and Eddie groaned, Bill mumbling, “Y-y-yyou alm-mmost did.” But he was smiling at her like she was still the most incredible person he’d ever seen. Eddie saw Stanley shift uncomfortably. Clearly their conversation before didn’t go very well.

Ben climbed down after her, and Mike followed.

“The whole gang’s here!” Richie chirped. 

"These two came to my place first," Mike explained with a knowing grin. "I've never felt so lonely in my life."

"I'm sorry," Ben apologized sheepishly, just as Beverly cooed and told Mike he'd be alright.

"You're dashing, Mikey! Anyone would be lucky to have you," she doted, and the murmurs of agreement only boosted the boy's confidence until he was beaming. 

Mike rubbed the back of his neck bashfully. "Thanks, guys."

"'Course, cowboy!" Richie teased, bumping his fist into Mike's shoulder.

Eddie giggled, and Richie returned to his side again. His boyfriend, he thought as Richie dropped his entire arm over Eddie’s shoulders. A grin that was almost painful pulled at his cheeks.

"Hey, guys?" said Stanley. It was quiet, almost like a squeak, but it got everyone's attention. Stan took a deep breath, all tense shoulders, full to the brim with doubt and fear and-

"I'm gay," he blurted. Squeezed his eyes shut. Dropped his shoulders. Sighed. Blinked his eyes open. "Just thought, since we're all together now, and-" he glanced at Bill, and then snapped his mouth shut. "I just thought I should tell you all."

There was silence for way too long. Eddie glanced around at the others, who were all staring at Stanley in shock. There didn't seem to be any disgust, but there was some confusion, and a whole lot of surprise. Eddie and Richie and Bill, of course, already knew, but they didn't exactly expect him to just blurt it out.

Stanley's face was going a sickly pale as the silence stretched. He stared at his knees, scratched his thighs, breathed heavily through his nose. Eddie could see, could  _ feel  _ his panic, and so he took a hesitant step forward and only a second later found himself hugging the insecurity out of Stan. "I'm so proud of you," he mumbled so that no one but Stanley could hear. He smiled when Stan's arms wrapped around his middle and squeezed.

"Oh-okay," Bill said. When Eddie looked, he was smiling at Stanley, and Eddie quickly backed away to give them space. "That's okay. You're still Stanley. That's what matters, yeah?" he wasn't exactly speaking to Stanley; he was eyeing everyone else, too, making sure those were their thoughts as much as his.

Stanley looked like he could burst into tears right there. He smiled, blinked rapidly, and nodded. "Y-yeah."

"'Course," Beverly chirped. She beamed at Stan as she dropped into her bean bag and turned on the boombox. She kept the volume low for Stanley, and the gesture didn't go unnoticed; the teenager smiled gratefully at her. "We love you."

Ben nodded in agreement.

"Hey, Stan?"

Stanley looked back at Bill with an adoring smile, and Eddie could almost feel the love the Jewish boy felt for Bill just from the way he looked at him; Stan looked at Bill like he was a faraway galaxy made of more color than the human eye can see; he looked at Bill the way people look at the Wonders of the World; he looked at Bill the way kids look at splatters of paint and glitter on a canvas.

Stan looked at Bill like he was a masterpiece.

"Yeah, Bill?"

"I'm proud of you."

▼

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's only one chapter left and I'm so sad. I don't want to stop writing this, it's practically been my baby since October of last year! It's gone through so much editing and perfecting and I love it so much, I don't want to leave it. But I couldn't have done it without the support I've gotten since publishing, so thank you all so much! I hope you enjoyed this chapter and enjoy the next. This is it :')


	16. It Chapter Two 2:43:14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! I've spent almost a year writing, editing, and rewriting this, and it means the world to me that so many of you enjoy it. It's not perfect, but I'm happy with it; I almost don't want to let it go, but I owe you all a final chapter. I hope you love reading it as much as I loved writing it! <3

▼

**As spring progressed** , the Losers finished their Junior year, and spring became summer.

This summer, everything would be different. They finally had friends, Henry Bowers was gone, and most importantly, Eddie finally had Richie.

The next step, of course, was to tell the other Losers that they were together.

▼

Ben smiled as Stanley grumbled, stuffing the money back into the box. “I can't believe you worked against me, Mikey. I  _ trusted  _ you!”

Mike shrugged, grinning. “I still lost.”

“That's what you get for mutiny,” Stan said.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better,” Ben started as he put away the Monopoly pieces and board, “I only won because you got the places I was going to get; if you hadn't got them, I wouldn't have had the money for Boardwalk.”

Stanley huffed through his nose, all but pouting.

“Ch-ch-cheer uh-up, Stanny,” Bill said, placing his hand on Stan’s knee and smiling at him. “At least you're not Richie.”

“Hey!” Richie snapped, shooting up and nearly tipping himself and Eddie out of the hammock. “I only lost first because I kept getting sent to jail! And when I  _ wasn't _ in jail, I was landing on all of Ben’s fucking properties! He had those fucking mansions after like five rounds around the board!”

“They’re  _ hotels _ ,” Stanley corrected, grinning when Richie made various squawks of rage.

“I don't care what they are, that shit was unfair!”

“Richie, if you knock me out of this hammock, you're not allowed in it ever again,” Eddie seethed, peering over his comic book at Richie. “I’m gonna be cuddling with Ben and Mike and you're going to be  _ wishing _ you had the luxury of being in my presence again.”

Richie settled spitefully, closing his eyes once more.

Eddie bit his lip, eyeing Richie for a moment before nudging him with his foot.

Richie blinked his eyes open again, meeting Eddie's with mild concern.

Eddie glanced at the others before turning around and laying next to Richie, rather than being head-to-foot. This made them close enough to feel each other's breaths fan against their cheeks. “I’ve been thinking,” he breathed, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth when he noticed Richie's flushed cheeks. “Maybe we should tell them about us? We already know they don't mind gay people, and we're not exactly secretive when we're around them. We could be more open, though, if we told them.”

Richie nodded almost immediately, a small smile quirking at his lips. “Yeah, that's kind of all I’ve been thinking about since I crawled in here. That and Ben’s fucking hotel-mansion-things.”

Eddie giggled, hiding his face behind his hands. “Jeez, Rich.”

Richie chuckled quietly. “But yeah, we… we could tell them.” He furrowed his brows and his hands found Eddie’s. “I just… What if it makes them uncomfortable? Us being together all the time and then them knowing… What if they remember all the times we've been just a little  _ too _ close and they get freaked out?”

Eddie squeezed his fidgeting hands reassuringly. “Do they seem bothered by Stan?”

Richie peeked over the fold of the hammock. Beverly and Stanley were going through one of Stan’s bird books while Bill laid his head in Stanley’s lap and played uno with Mike and Ben. No one seemed bothered, or even spared a glance at Stan and Bill, and Richie laid back down with a sigh.

“No.” He smiled before stuffing his face in Eddie's (Richie’s) sweater.

Eddie giggled as Richie let go of his hands to grip his sweater, and Eddie replaced his hands in Richie’s hair. “What? Why are you hiding?”

“I just thought about all the couple-y things we could do around them if we came out.”

“You mean all the things we  _ already _ do? We’ve kind of always been this way, Rich,” he pointed out with a grin.

Richie hummed. “Yeah, but it's different, you know? Because now I know, and you know, and if we told them  _ they’d _ know, and it's just… I can't believe it all.”

Eddie’s cheeks hurt then, his smile somehow growing bigger and his cheeks getting warmer. “I can't believe you think being with  _ me _ is surreal. I feel that way about you, too.”

Richie seemed to melt. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Jeez.”

“Jeez,” Eddie agreed. There was a lull in conversation then, that Eddie filled with, “I used to talk to Stanley about you. Told him how I wished my feelings for this boy weren't so wrong and messed up. You know the day Bowers decided shanking my face with that damned pocket knife of his would be fun? Yeah, that entire day was four consecutive panic attacks about how I had these raging feelings for a  _ boy _ .” Richie looked up at him curiously. Eddie smiled again, because god _ , Richie was beautiful _ , and  _ how could he ever think  _ this  _ was bad _ ? “Past me would lose my mind if I knew I’d actually be  _ dating _ you.”

Richie looked hurt for a moment, loosening his hold on Eddie and backing away slightly. “I-”

Eddie cupped his face. “In a good way!” he reassured him quickly. “I was pining after you the moment I found you beaten up in that field.”

Richie grinned, relaxing into Eddie’s touch. “Yeah, that fateful day.”

Eddie kissed Richie's forehead, only for Richie to pull him down and kiss him properly.

A whistle sounded from nearby. Eddie and Richie broke apart, both looking up to see Beverly and Stanley eyeing them with teasing smirks. “Bill, I’ll be expecting those five bucks,” Beverly called.

Eddie clung to Richie, terror running through him. Richie just sighed. “How long have you assholes been standing there?”

“Just now, but you’d probably like to know that we've been making bets on what you two were doing since Eddie moved,” Stanley said.

Richie glanced at Eddie to make sure he was alright. He looked shaken, but other than that he just seemed pissed. Richie smirked. “Who made the bet that I was jerking him off? At least one of you had to, come on.”

Eddie huffed exasperatedly, his ears tinting red. Richie giggled and kissed his temple.

“That would be me,” Stanley said with a mischievous grin. “That's too bad, I was gonna get ten dollars if you were. I’ll pay you Friday, Mikey.”

Richie hummed, glancing at Eddie again. “Ten dollars, that's what they think we're worth.”

Eddie snorted. “A tragedy,” he deadpanned, sitting up. He eyed the other Losers suspiciously; Ben waved shyly and Bill winked, while Mike just grinned. “I was so ready to have this dramatic speech about how I’m gay today, too.” He sighed, a smile pulling at his lips.

“That makes four of us. Bev, I’m waiting on you. You, too, Mikey,” Richie added, sitting up and wrapping his arms around Eddie’s shoulders.

Mike shrugged. “I like girls, sorry to disappoint. Bill’s pretty cute, though,” he teased, poking Bill’s arm with a grin.

Bill huffed. “Ss-ssucks f-for y-you. Stan’s g-g-got mm-me.”

“That sucks for  _ all _ of us, Bill,” Richie said. “You're fucking hot, man.”

“Hey, don't forget who you’ve got your arms around, Tozier,” Eddie bit, pinching Richie’s arm softly.

Richie yelped before prodding Eddie's sides. “I can't forget you, Eds. Still, you can’t deny, Bill’s a catch.”

Eddie grumbled. “ _ I _ think Ben’s pretty. Ben and Mike and Stan and Bev.”

Beverly hummed. “I think you're all hideous, personally. ‘Cept Ben.” She blew a kiss at the boy, who was already blushing from Eddie’s compliment.

“I side with Beverly,” Stanley put in. “Well, Beverly and Richie. And Eddie. I just think you're all really pretty.”

“Aw, even me?” Richie asked, fluttering his eyelashes.

Stanley snorted. “Ha. That's the funniest joke you've ever told, Trashmouth.”

Richie pouted, and Eddie kissed his cheek. “ _ I _ think you're the prettiest bastard here, if it makes you feel better,” Eddie told him.

Richie smiled exaggeratedly, almost all of his teeth showing. “Thanks, buddy!” he exclaimed through his extreme display of teeth and joy.

Eddie snickered behind his hand. “Okay, that's enough of that. Stop.”

Richie relaxed his face, still smiling, and unraveled his arms from Eddie to lay back down. “Sir-yes-sir.”

“So, Eddie and Richie, Stan and Bill, and me and Ben, with Mikey as the seventh wheel. That’s wild,” Beverly said with a smile. “Sorry, Mikey. You were the next taker if Ben wouldn't have me.”

“That's okay,” Mike said with a grin and a shrug. “I’m not really looking for a relationship. You guys are enough.”

Richie laughed. “‘Nough to wrangle us all up, or enough to make up for the lack of a gal?”

Mike thought about it for a moment. “Both. It's like having five boyfriends and a girlfriend.”

“Huh. Sounds  _ exciting _ ,” Richie alluded with a wink.

“Beep-beep, Richie,” Eddie laughed.

▼

It wasn't his intended way of coming out, but the reactions were ideal, and Eddie was happy.

His mother was another issue.

▼

“Eddie  _ please _ , you  _ need _ them!” Sonia begged.

Eddie winced. He'd never be able to handle arguments with his mother; even if no one was around, he was embarrassed by her childish bawling. “Mom, no one else my age needs all these pills, especially for these reasons.”

“But you're  _ special _ !” she argued pitifully. At this point, Eddie wasn't sure if her blubbering was just her guilt-tripping him or if it was genuinely how she acted. “You're  _ delicate _ . You need proper care!”

“No, I think I’ll be fine without them. The only reason you've ever tried to force these down my throat is because of the one time I got bronchitis when I was five. And Dad’s cancer probably has something to do with it, too.”

Sonia became angry then, her eyebrows furrowing and the rest of her face reddening. When she was angry, she seemed so much bigger, and it made Eddie want to shrink down into a ball and disappear, but that would only solidify her idea that he was weak and needed “special care.” He did  _ not _ .

“You will not speak of your father that way, young man,” Sonia snapped.

Eddie took a deep breath. “But am I wrong?”

Sonia glared at him for a moment longer, but she only sighed and shook her head. “ _ Fine _ , but when you get sick, don't blame me.” She tipped the pills back into the bottles and Eddie slipped out of the bathroom.

Before he went to his room, however, he turned around. “Do you mind if I go hang out with Bill? He got his own car recently and we were thinking about going to a movie.”

Sonia studied him. Eddie found himself internally screaming and bracing himself for yet another argument. “You’ve been leaving a lot recently. I’m getting old, Eddie; what if I fall and you're not here to help me? You're my only son—I  _ miss _ you.”

Eddie sighed. “Mom, I’m almost eighteen. I’m going to be moving out soon, anyway. I can't help you if you fall and I’m not even in Derry, right? Just try to be careful. I’m sure Miss Louise will come help, though, just try to call for her.”

Sonia returned to the cabinet. “Well fine then. Go. Leave your poor mother, the woman who birthed you and raised you and  _ took care of you _ , here in this old house,  _ alone _ .”

Eddie turned around to hide his (Richie’s) shit-eating grin. “Thanks, Mom!” He was down the stairs and out the door in almost record time.

▼

Eddie sat in the passenger’s seat of Bill's car, reveling in the fact that one of the Losers even  _ had _ a car now. “Holy shit, Bill.”

Bill grinned. “I kn-nnow, right? I-i-it’s is a-aw-awes-ssome. Stan lll-llives closes-st to mm-m-me, so we're getting h-hhim f-first.”

“Sweet. How are you guys?” Eddie asked, eyeing the road nervously through the mirror as Bill began to back out of his driveway.

“W-we're awesome. I love him to d-deh-death, you kn-nnow? I think sss-so-some-sometimes he gets j-juh-j-jealous of Beverly, thh-tho-though. We're ww-wor-working o-on it.”

Eddie bit his lip. “Yeah, what's the status of you and Bev? I know you guys are in separate relationships, but there's tension.”

Bill pursed his lips. “I- I ll-lov-ve her. I love Stan, t-tt-too, th-tho-ough. It’s we-we-weir-rrd. Stan’s known m-mme llon-long-ger, and a rel-lat-tionsh-sh-ship with-th him j-juh-just m-makes more s-ssense. A-an-and Beverly loves Ben, and Ben d-des-serv-ves h-hher mm-more th-than-n m-muh-me. She's b-bet-ter f-for him.”

Eddie nodded, looking out his window. “Yeah, I understand. If I’m honest, Stanley always looks sad around you and Bev. I think he thinks she deserves you more than him, or you love her more. Something like that. But, with time and reassurance, I think you guys could fix this; it's not really broken. Just confusing.”

Bill sighed. “Yeah. I ww-w-wish I d-di-didn't have fff-fuh-feelings for anyone eh-ex- _ except _ Stanley, but I c-c-can't h-heh-hh-  _ help _ it, you know?”

Eddie glanced at him. “I get you. You don't have to explain yourself, Big Bill. And Stan knows, too, I think. It's just hard for us losers to have hope sometimes.”

Bill laughed. “Y-yeah. H-hhow ab-bout yyy-y-you and Loverboy?”

Eddie smiled, his cheeks and neck getting warm. “He's brilliant, Bill. I mean, he's a fucking idiot half the time, but… I love him. We're really good. We're going on a date Sunday.”

“Hh-how’d you t-two c-co-come to th-that?”

“He knocked on my window at two in the morning a few days ago and asked where my favorite place in Derry was. Told him up his ass at first, ‘cause I was tired, and after several jokes about my mom, we decided that we were gonna spend the day by the quarry.”

“O-of c-c-course.”

▼

Stanley replaced Eddie in the front seat after a very quick argument of:

“I’m his best friend!”

“I’m his boyfriend. What the fuck is your point?”

“Fair.”

Ben was next, just down the road from Stanley’s. Then Richie and Beverly.

By the time they were at the drive-in, Eddie was lying across Richie with his head in Mike’s lap, and Beverly was lying across Richie the other way with her head in Ben’s lap, Richie being forced in the middle. They’d gotten McDonald’s to go, which was up front with Stanley, and the sun was setting.

Bill slammed on the brakes just as they pulled into the line.

“Shit!” Eddie yelped, nearly rolling into the floor. “Jeez, Big Bill!”

Bill giggled quietly. “Ss-sorry, Eddie.”

“No you're not, don't  _ lie _ ,” Eddie scolded.

“Right, m-my b-ba-bad,” he snickered.

▼

Eddie slid out of Bill’s car with Richie. “See ya, Big Bill!” Richie shouted, waving as Bill pulled out of Richie's driveway. Eddie waved until the car turned onto a different road before turning and following Richie to his house.

“I swear to god, if you keep me awake, I will personally kick you out of your own room,” Eddie threatened.

“You wouldn’t!” Richie said through an extreme yawn.

Eddie giggled. “Sounds like I won't have to.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Richie muttered as he unlocked the front door and stuffed the key back onto the rafters. He let Eddie in first before closing and locking the door.

“Lead the way, O Sleepy One.”

Richie led Eddie up the stairs (missing all the creaks, Eddie noticed as the very second step squeaked underneath his weight) and down the hallway into his room. “Ta-da,” he mumbled, closing the door behind them. “Wanna help me put this dresser in front of the door?”

Eddie caught himself before asking and simply nodded. He grabbed one end, Richie grabbed the other, and with a great amount of effort, they pushed it in front of the door.

The two kicked off their shoes and fell into bed, Eddie barely making it under the covers before drifting off. Richie smiled lazily as he placed his glasses on the bedside table, pulled the blankets over himself, and curled up next to Eddie. He kissed his boyfriend's forehead, whispered a breath of a goodnight, and then fell asleep.

▼

“Richard!”

Richie shot up, grabbing his glasses and pulling them on. He jumped as another harsh knock came to the door.

“Eds!” he whispered, prodding his boyfriend.

Eddie grumbled. “What?”

“We’ve gotta go!”

“Huh-”

“ _ Richard _ ! I know you're in there!”

“Oh,” Eddie said, suddenly wide awake. He clambered out of Richie's bed and stumbled next to him by the window, where the afternoon sun shone through. “Jump?”

Richie nodded as he pulled it open. “You first,” he instructed. Eddie nodded, using Richie to balance as he stepped through. He gripped onto the window sill and slid himself out.

Within moments, he was barely holding on. “Rich, I-” he began, his eyes wide.

Richie pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You’ve got this. Just let go. You’ll be alright, it's not too far.”

Eddie braced himself. Squeezed his eyes shut and prayed.

He let go.

Richie watched him fall. He landed on his feet first before falling down entirely. He blinked his eyes open, and tears filled his eyes.

“Shit,” Richie mumbled, immediately feeling terrible. Wentworth berated the door again, and Richie pulled himself through the window before climbing down the side of the house and dropping halfway.

He rushed to Eddie’s side. 

“That f-fucking  _ hurt _ , you asshole!” Eddie spat, wiping his eyes as he pulled himself up. “I think I broke my ass.”

“Well I’ll carry you to the hospital if you did. Come on,” Richie urged.

The two boys hurried through the yard and down the sidewalk. Once they were a few blocks away, they slowed to a pace. “Where’re we headed, Wise One?” Richie asked.

Eddie shrugged. “Wanna get ice cream and hang out at the quarry? Like our date, but sooner.”

Richie grinned. “Sure thing, Spaghetti.”

▼

Richie had a running head start.

“Hey! My ass is broken, that's not fair!” Eddie called despite his laughter and his gaining speed. He passed Richie and was the first to jump into the water below.

Falling in love, Eddie decided, was a lot more comfortable than falling from a cliff.

He was greeted by the water’s lukewarm embrace soon enough, though. He floated to the surface just as Richie crashed beneath.

He brushed his hair out of his eyes and took a deep breath, grinning from ear to ear. Richie resurfaced after a moment, and Eddie giggled at all the hair covering his face. He swam up to him and pushed back the mop of hair to kiss Richie Tozier. 

He felt Richie smile into the kiss and knock their legs together underwater. He broke away to laugh against his boyfriend’s shoulder.

“ _ God _ , you're so cute,” Richie teased, kissing Eddie’s forehead. “Cute, cute,  _ cute _ !”

“I could say the same for you,” Eddie pointed out.

“ _ Could _ ?” 

“Could.”

Richie gasped. “Eddie!”

Eddie giggled and took a breath as Richie tried to dunk him under. He fought back, kicking and clawing at Richie until he let him up. “Fine, fine!” Eddie laughed. “You're very pretty, Richie.” He planted a kiss on his nose. “Cute, cute, cute.”

Richie gasped again, smiling this time. “You said the thing!”

“I said the thing,” Eddie admitted.

Richie smiled and kissed Eddie again. Eddie wrapped his arms around his neck while Richie held onto his waist.

“I love you,” Richie told him. Those three words fluttered around in Eddie’s heart.

**“I love you, too, ‘Chee.”**

▼

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! i'll *try* to update this every saturday/sunday. [it's also on wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/story/202229619-%F0%9D%90%89%F0%9D%90%AE%F0%9D%90%AC%F0%9D%90%AD-%F0%9D%90%80-%F0%9D%90%92%F0%9D%90%9C%F0%9D%90%AB%F0%9D%90%9A%F0%9D%90%AD%F0%9D%90%9C%F0%9D%90%A1-%F0%9D%90%91%F0%9D%90%9E%F0%9D%90%9D%F0%9D%90%9D%F0%9D%90%A2%F0%9D%90%9E) if you wanna check it out there! :)


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